


Adjusting

by BlueSkye12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, BAMF John, Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:43:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a soldier. It was going to take time for him to adjust to civilian life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That First Night

It was going 1 a.m. by the time Sherlock and John had arrived at the Chinese restaurant on Baker St., and Sherlock had thoroughly instructed John as to what to look for on the bottom third of the door handle. The owner, Xinming Lu, was delighted to see the detective and, like Angelo, insisted that they both order whatever they wanted on the house. Unlike Angelo, Mr. Lu did not feel the need to bring a candle for the table. John was frankly relieved, not only by the lack of candle, but by the free meal. Of course, he did have the cash for dinner, he wasn't quite that pathetic, but he would have to be very careful with his finances going forward if he were to afford the rent at 221B Baker St, special deal or no. And he _was_ starving. Dim sum, kung pao chicken, lo mein, Szechuan vegetables and white rice, John and Sherlock devoured every last morsel. John was impressed by the amount of food that the skinny detective tucked away. He ate like he hadn't eaten in days! Not surprisingly, Sherlock did most of the talking. John nodded appreciatively as he chewed and asked all the right leading questions. _So how could the brother's ladder tell you anything?_ A few times, Sherlock stopped short after such a question and simply stared at his dinner companion with a slight hint of a smile. _What?_ Sherlock never gave him a reply but John had the impression that he had just passed some unspoken test. Mr. Lu finally closed the doors behind them at 2:30 a.m.

A companionable silence settled between the unlikely pair as they walked back up Baker Street to 221B. Sherlock wore a hint of a smile as he continued his silent analysis of the enigma walking next to him. John was an idiot, of course, and utterly unobservant like everyone else but there was _something_ about him. Something beyond excellent skill with firearms, although that was likely to come in quite handy. There was something Sherlock did not quite understand, a mystery. And there was nothing that Sherlock Holmes liked better than turning a good mystery over in his mind as he walked. For his part, John was tired and had pretty much given up thinking for rest of the night. He had briefly considered continuing on to his old flat but he had long since missed the last Tube and was currently off taxis, given the night's events. Besides, he really was exhausted. Sherlock barely glanced back as John followed him up the stairs into 221B. The bed in the room upstairs was not made up but that did not phase him. John had slept under a lot worse conditions. He found an old blanket on the shelf in the wardrobe. He toed off his shoes and hung his black coat on the bed post. John then wrapped himself, fully dressed, in the blanket and was a sleep almost instantly. When he awoke shortly before 9:00, the smell of Mrs. Hudson's freshly baked blueberry scones was wafting up the stairs.

John sat on the edge of the bed and surveyed his room. He hadn't really had a chance to look at it properly yet. It was a smallish attic room with second-hand furniture. Not much, really, just a desk, a dresser and a night table in addition to the four-poster bed and the rather small wardrobe. The single window, which had home-made blue and cream plaid curtains, opened on to a fire escape that went up to the roof as well as down to the alley. John smiled to himself. He liked this place. His housing while in the army had not been bad. When in England, his quarters, as an officer, had always been quite adequate and comfortable. Sometimes, like during the three months he spent on an exchange to the Mayo Clinic in America _,_ his quarters had bordered on luxurious _._ This, however, was different. He listened to the sounds of Sherlock stirring down stairs and breathed in the heavenly aroma of the scones. This was something John had not known for a long, long time. This just might be home.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/


	2. A History of Military Service

John descended the stairs to find Sherlock rooting through an untidy pile of boxes next to the bookshelves. He was wearing a blue dressing gown over his dress shirt and black trousers and bare feet.

"Ah, John. I assume you'll be moving your belongings today. Do you happen to have a kettle? I seem to have misplaced mine. Pity, the heating element was idea for warming glycerins and parafins."

"Of course I have a kettle but I'll thank you not to put anything but water in it," John replied flatly casting a despairing look about the cluttered sitting room. "You are going clear things up, aren't you?" he asked trying to keep his voice light. Sherlock ignored him completely in favor of his kettle search. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came to the open door with a quiet "hoo hoo". She had a tray with tea and still-warm scones. John scrambled to help her with the tray while Sherlock up ended another box without even looking up.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson you really shouldn't have," John started.

"Well, just this once, dear. I heard you get in so late last night and knew you couldn't have been to the shops yet." Sherlock made a triumphant dive into yet another pile.

"Yes. YES!" He raised the missing kettle in triumph. He then turned finally noticing Mrs. Hudson and the tray of tea. "Oh," he said slightly crest fallen. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, tea would be lovely," and he carelessly flipped the kettle onto the nearest pile.

"Just this once," Mrs. Hudson reiterated waggling a finger toward Sherlock.

/-/-/-/-/-/

An hour later, after John had done the washing up, Sherlock left for New Scotland Yard to see Lestrade and John headed back to his tiny bedsit. He found the grumbling, old land lord, Mr. Maddipoti, in the basement tinkering with the decrepit, ancient washing machine and gave him his notice. Like most of the tenants, John had been paying weekly, in advance. Mr. Maddipoti barely grunted in his direction in reply and John wonder vaguely if Mr. Maddipoti even knew which unit he was in. It took John less than an hour to pack and clean the flat. He left in a taxi the same way he'd come 7 weeks prior with his large green army duffle bag, his army pack, his laptop and a single suitcase.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next morning John took Mike Stamford up on his offer of a lift to Harry's place up in Camden Town. He had stored his books and some other things there before he had last been deployed to Afghanistan. John had never been one for accumulating possession and everything fit easily into Mike's trusty old Citroen hatchback. Mike reminisced all the while about other moving days from their time at Uni that John honestly couldn't recall. Mike's jovial mood was soon crushed during the return trip by the absolutely brutal traffic. He and John barely had time to unload the Citroen onto the stoop of 221B before Mike had to dash off to his afternoon lecture. John propped the door to 221 open and began shuffling his things inside.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade thumbed through the ballistics report the and the photos from Roland Kerr Further Education College and placed them back in the case file. He wanted to run the whole package the past Sherlock one more time. He still wasn't satisfied with the detective's back peddling regarding the shooter. Something didn't sit right there. A kill shot with a hand gun through a window from at least 30 metres away. Sherlock had been going on about it at the scene but then stopped and he hadn't offered anymore yesterday, other than the obvious. The shooter was an expert, maybe even a pro. He checked his phone again. Sherlock wasn't responding to his texts. Lestrade sighed. Bloody perfect. Taking the file in hand, he stood and left his office. Nothing for it but to go to the annoying git's new flat, personally.

When Lestrade arrived at 221 Baker St. the outer door was slightly ajar. He pushed the door open and was just about to call a 'Hello' when a voice came down the stairwell.

"Grab something on the way up, would you?"

That must be Sherlock's supposed new flat mate. Lestrade paused to recall the name. Dr. Weston? No, Watson. God, was the man really going to move in? The DI shook his head. In the entry there was a stack of neatly packed boxes and small television. Lestrade grabbed the TV and a smallish box and headed up the stairs. He had just gained the landing when he heard foot steps coming down and the voice again,

"About your _experiment_ in the kitchen, I don't ... "

John froze half way down the stairs, his eyes widening a bit at the sight of the DI. When he continued his voice was quieter and almost a touch apprehensive.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm sorry, I though you were Sherlock. You didn't have to," John pointed wordlessly to the television and moved to take it off Lestrade's hands apologizing again.

"Oh, no problem," Lestrade countered politely. "Moving day is it, Dr. Watson?"

"John," John said out of habit.

"Greg," Lestrade offered in return.

"Um, yeah." John mumbled in reply to the DI's question lifting the television up as if in evidence.

"Are you looking for Sherlock? He's not in at the moment," John said a bit too quickly as he crossed the sitting room to place the television on top of the shelves. "I'm not quite sure where he is, actually," he continued with a small, almost shy smile. It rattled John far more than he liked to have a detective inspector from Scotland Yard suddenly appear in his flat less than three days after he had killed a man.

Lestrade scowled severely as he considered this information. Then he scanned Sherlock's detritus which still littered the room despite the detectives assurances that he would 'tidy up a bit'. The DI's copper senses were kicking in. This might be an interesting opportunity. He glanced up at the thoroughly ordinary looking man before him. He knew virtually nothing about this mysterious "flat mate" and "colleague" who had suddenly accompanied Sherlock the other night, only that Holmes had seemed to _defer_ to him twice and then abruptly sought him out after the whole mess at the College to "discuss the rent". If this guy held some sway over Sherlock, Lestrade needed to know how and why. He shook his head slowly for dramatic effect and huffed a single, disbelieving laugh.

"You're _really_ going to live here, with _him_? You do know what he's like, don't you?" Lestrade broke into an all-too-knowing, friendly grin as he looked at John. John returned the smile with along with a sheepish, one-shoulder shrug.

"Well, you're a braver soul than me, John Watson." With that, he gave John a slight mock bow and put the box he was holding on top of a mass of Sherlock's boxes. "Here, OK?" John nodded relaxing a bit.

"As good as anywhere I suppose," he said making a futile attempt to straightened some of the mess by the shelves.

Lestrade took another quick glance around the flat. It was nice enough and well located but why would an experienced doctor need to flat share, especially with someone like Sherlock Holmes?

"So, Dr. Watson ... John," Lestrade hastily corrected himself with an engaging smile, "are you new to the city?" John took a beat before answering.

"No, not really. I, um, trained at Bart's and my sister lives up in Camden. Been away for awhile, 'though." Lestrade nodded amicably then he noticed the green canvas pack with the name tag 'WATSON' on it leaning against the wall by the door. _No, it couldn't be, could it?._

"So, what brings you back?" he smiled looking genuinely interested. John was caught short and stared dumbly back at Lestrade before clearing his throat. He hadn't actually explained this out loud yet, not to a stranger anyway.

"I've just left the army. Thought I'd looking for work here."

_You're looking for someone with a history of military service._

Only the DI's 23 years of experience allowed him to school his features and give nothing away as he studied this mystery man again. He stood straight, dressed in jeans and a plaid button-up shirt which was, in fact, buttoned right up to the top. His hair was trimmed short and neat. He could almost hear Holmes's superior drawl in his head. _Military_ , _obviously_.

"Really?" Greg sounded surprised, which he guessed he was. "What? In the medical corps? Regular army or TA?"

"Regular army, I'm RAMC attached to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers. Was attached..." John quickly corrected, his ear tips flushing red.

"Really. I've got a mate who's a sergeant major with the 1st Mechanized*."

"Oh? Tank driver?" John inquired politely.

"Yeah, well, used to be. He's got some job in Whitehall now. Just don't let him park in London. No space is too small if you know what I mean." John chuckled then was quiet again. Lestrade shifted deciding to press further.

"Mind if I wait a bit, for Sherlock? I just wanted to review his statement about that crazy cabbie and the two pills business, as well as his deductions about the shooter?" he raised the case file studying John's face for a reaction. There was none other than that of a well-mannered, polite Englishman.

"Um, no, not at all. Please." John indicated the gray and red plaid armchair. "Sorry the place resembles a tip at the moment but I do think I know where the tea is." John stepped around some boxes into the kitchen and set his kettle to boil.

While John busied himself with the tea, Lestrade noticed the box placed next to the chair. It was neatly labeled Journals, 2005-2010 in a hand he knew was not Sherlock's. He casually flipped the box open. On top were several issues of 'The Annals of the Royal College of Surgeons'. Not just a doctor but a ruddy surgeon. _His hand couldn't have shaken at all._ Jesus _._

John returned with a mug of tea for Lestrade and one for himself. Lestrade regarded the man again as he accepted the steaming cup. He was a bit short with a compact build and was probably a pretty good athlete. His manner was bit reserved but otherwise he seemed completely ... normal.

"So how the heck did you ever get into this, John? How do you know Sherlock?"

"Actually, I just met him. I had a chance run-in with an old mate from Bart's, Mike Stamford," Lestrade interrupted,

"Oh, I've met Mike. Oversees the teaching labs at the hospital that Sherlock likes to haunt." John smiled politely in affirmation.

"Right. Well, I ran into Mike at the park Tuesday and he introduced us. I'd just come by to look at the place when you showed up and we headed out to Lauriston Gardens. And, well, hear we are." John spread his arms to encompass the room. "A bit crazy, I know, " he smiled, a genuine warm smile, then to Lestrade's surprise he went on. "But in that cab to Brixton he ... deduced me, you know what I mean? It was amazing, like a magic trick only it wasn't. It was real. I'd known him for about 20 minutes in total and he knew my whole life story. Then he does it again on Jennifer Wilson. I mean, would you _ever_ have known she had a case never mind that it'd be pink? That was _brilliant_." Lestrade looked thoughtfully at the doctor who was still smiling broadly. He was right. He was absolutely right. Finally, someone else who saw. Now if Sherlock could only manage not to drive him away.

"Well, mate, you didn't happen to receive any special training in the army, did you?" Lestrade asked lightly. John's smile vanished and he looked puzzled as he felt his stomach drop out. He had had quite a bit of special training.

"What do you mean?" he asked as neutrally as he could.

"Oh, I don't know. Some sort of hazardous duty training, lion taming, advanced ninja skills. Could be helpful for you," Lestrade quipped voice now teasing. John smiled, mainly in relief.

"Nope, not a ninja, but I do have some mates in 40 Commando if things get out of hand." Lestrade laughed. He liked this bloke.

After finishing his tea John stood. "Excuse me, I've got some more things to move up. I've got no idea when Sherlock will return, really, but you're welcome to wait." John smiled politely again and headed toward the door.

"Let me give you a hand, then," Lestrade offered putting his own tea down and standing up. In two trips they brought the remaining boxes up to the sitting room.

"I wonder if I can get squatter's rights if I can get my books into the shelves first," John said sardonically as he spun back to face Lestrade. His elbow bumped the top box of books which started to slide off the pile. John instinctively reached out and back with his left hand to stop the heavy box, which wasn't the best idea. Lestrade also got hand on the box and managed to right it as John let out an involuntary hiss of pain and drew his arm in close to his body.

"You pull your shoulder or something?" the DI asked with friendly concern. John nodded vaguely not wanting to get into it. "Man, that can smart. I pulled mine out last year," he rolled his right shoulder, "putting up some shelves for the missus. Still not sure what I did exactly but I heard a pop, you know?" he looked at John earnestly. "I tell you I felt that bugger twinge every time I tried to reached up for the next 6 months. Couldn't even screw in a overhead light bulb. Felt like a cripple." Lestrade huffed laugh. John's face hardened for a flash before he forced something neutral and nodded again.

"It's something like that," he said flatly.

In the end, Lestrade hung around for another 15 minutes watching John stack books on the bookshelves before giving up. In that time, he and John engaged in idle conversation typical of British males. _Football or rugby? Newcastle? You support bloody Newcastle? I like playing football but rugger's much more exciting to watch. Did you see Top Gear last week?_ Once back at New Scotland Yard, Lestrade wasted no time in calling his old mate the sergeant major. Three days later Lestrade stood his good mate a pint at his favorite pub. The sergeant major had just handed him the service record for one Captain John H. Watson, MD.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Whatever Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade though he'd discover in John's service record, he was not prepared for what was actually in there. John Watson had been one hell of a soldier and an excellent doctor, too. A trauma surgeon who had routinely gone up to forward areas where doctors were rarely, if ever, sent. He had been well regarded and well liked by both superior officers and subordinates. He had been decorated and had twice been mentioned in dispatches. No doubt about it, John Watson had been having one hell of a career. Had been.

Greg sat back on the sofa feet propped on the coffee table. Anna and the kids had gone to bed hours ago, it was now past midnight. He swirled the last of the scotch in his glass and looked up to the ceiling before looking once more at the last page of the folder spread open on his lap, as if the pause would change the indelible text. _Wounded in action, Helmund Province. Shot by sniper while treating casualties. Emergency evacuation. Critical-care airlift to UK. Massive post-operative infection. Permanent disability. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Unfit for Duty. Honourable Discharge (medical causes)._ The last entry was dated just eight weeks ago. Greg closed his eyes and swore out loud.

"Shit."

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – So, what do you think? I just have always seen Lestrade being on to John right from the start. Please read and review (said with sad puppy dog eyes ...)
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	3. Not the John Watson He Knew

Mike Stamford gave his 3 pm Introductory Anatomy lecture on auto-pilot that Tuesday afternoon. Not that the lecture was incomplete or lacking in any way. Mike was a good teacher and he had taught the course a half-dozen times before but his thoughts were definitely elsewhere. After Sherlock had left the lab in search of his riding crop, Mike and a perplexed John had exchanged a few more awkward pleasantries with John entering Mike's mobile number in his phone and Mike enthusiastically offering his help should John end up moving. John had then shifted his cane over to shake Mike's hand thanking him for the coffee and rotely promising to stay in touch. All the while his face remained blank and his eyes flat. Mike's heart sank a bit as he grinned like a cheerfully idiot in response. Seeing John Watson in the park, after all these years, should have been a lark. They should have exchanged hardy back slaps and ear-to-ear grins then moved on to complaining about the state of the profession.

"Sir,"

After that they might have commiserated about Newcastle's abysmal season so far.

"Please, Sir,"

They should have shown each other pictures of wives or girl friends or kids, traded e-mail addresses and parted with a plan to meet at a pub Friday next.

_"Sir,"_ Mike finally surfaced from his thoughts to notice the spotty youth who was addressing him. Somehow he had made his way from the lecture hall and was now standing outside his office door. 

"Yes, what is it? Thompkins, is it?" Mike smiled his kindly, professorial smile. The lad only required a signature.

Mike shuttered himself in his office. He sat back in his slightly tatty office chair and looked at the various yellow Post-it notes across his desk blotter that listed the things he had considered problems before lunch. The 110 quid it would cost to fix the dishwasher, the conference with Katie's teacher and head mistress at 10 am tomorrow, having tea with Beth's overbearing dad on Saturday. His thoughts slid relentlessly back to John. _Got shot._. Jesus Christ. Mike's reached for the framed picture on the corner of his desk. His heart literally swelled with gratitude as he stared at the photo of his beautiful family.

A lifetime ago, Mike and John had met on their first day at Bart's and felt a natural connection having both come from working class families. Although neither would have claimed any special closeness they had remained friends, drinking buddies and study partners throughout, and even kept it touch for a while after graduation. Mike had always admired John a bit. He had been athletic and clever and got on well with people. The girls all seemed to fancy him. He'd also had a certain drive. Simply achieving passing marks wasn't enough. He, like Mike, had been serious about becoming a good doctor. Although few of their classmates had understood it, John had also been serious about becoming a good soldier. After residency, when most had gone on to fellowships. John had gone to Sandhurst. Mike wasn't surprised. John had always enjoyed a challenge. He'd lived for them. Earning honours in organic chemistry just to spite the professor, no problem. Playing rugby at uni although he was barely 10 stone soaking wet, why not? John Watson thrived under pressure like no one Mike had ever met before or since.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John had not been prepared to meet anyone during his walk that Tuesday afternoon. He had been moving like a ghost through the city for the past seven weeks. No one noticed him and he had grown comfortable with his cloak of anonymity. He was, therefore, completely unprepared to be accosted by anyone never mind someone who had known him before. As he had awkwardly shifted his cane to shake hands with Mike Stamford his eyes where downcast, searching for an escape. He wasn't ready for this. Mike was as friendly and effusive as ever quipping about getting fat.

"No, no," John meekly demurred looking down.

"What happened?" Mike was asking innocently, what was he supposed to say? "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at?" John wasn't prepared for this but he still felt a bit cruel as he delivered his blunt reply,

"Got shot." He watched without expression as Stamford's kind, smiling face fell.

"Jesus, John, I'm sorry," Mike breathed earnestly, "I ... are you ..." John cut in, he couldn't stand this.

"Fine, yes, fine. I'm fine," he smiled weakly looking down hoping for a way out. He shifted his stance with a slight grimace, his leg was screaming. Stamford noticed, of course.

"Here, take a load off," he said in a no-nonsense doctor voice pointing back to the bench. John didn't want any damned pity. The ache wasn't real anyway, damn it. He was going to make an excuse but Mike wasn't listening any more.

"I was just going to get a coffee." Now he was pointing toward the cart vendor on the corner. "Can I get you one? Cream no sugar, right?" John nodded more in surprise than anything else. How in the hell had Mike remembered that? But Mike was half way to the cart already. John shifted uncomfortably again, grit his teeth, and made is way over to the bench. Once there he tried to school his attitude. He had always liked Mike and what else did he have to do today? Why not catch up with an old friend. After all, the big wide world hadn't stopped, just his little corner of it had. John forced himself to make small talk and tried to keep a lid on his bitterness. Damn his hand! Mike was only being kind. No, Mike was kind the least John could do was be civil. Talk.

"Come on, who'd want me for a flatmate?" The answer to that had been ... _interesting!_

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mike was delighted, if a bit surprised, that John actually took him up on his offer to help with the moving. He had called on Thursday saying he was taking the flat share with Sherlock was wondering if he could impose. Was it Mike's imagination, or transference, or what have you, or did John really sound better (somehow) than he had on Tuesday? Mike tripped over his own tongue three ways from Sunday in his haste to agree.

"Super, yes, well ... By all ... The place is nice, then? ... and don't mind Sherlock. Right, it's settled then."

He and John agreed that Mike would fetch him from Baker St. Friday morning as Mike had nothing on Friday's until his 3 pm lecture. They would head up to Camden to retrieve John's boxes from Harry's basement. Mike thought of John's sister. He had liked her well enough the few time they'd met during Uni, but she and John had always seemed to butt heads. John never, ever, asked his sister for anything. and Mike really wasn't sure why.

The first thing Mike noticed as he pulled up to the kerb outside 221 Baker was that John was not using the cane. He must not have hid his surprise well.

"Yeah, it is psychosomatic," John huffed with a self-conscious smile as he descended the steps. "Thanks for doing this, mate. Not quite in the monthly finances to hire a car at the moment," he added quietly with another small smile. "You want a coffee before we're off?" John said a bit more brightly hooking a thumb towards Speedy's.

With coffees in hand they settled into Mike's Citroen and headed up to Camden. Mike quickly launched into stories and reminiscences their time at Bart's. John was mostly quiet and smiled politely. He even laughed a few times. He asked some polite questions about other old classmates. Mike sent him a few sideways glances as he prattled on not knowing how to act around this version of John. How could he possibly relate to the life that this John Watson had lived and almost lost. Still, John was not nearly as withdrawn and flat as he had been on Tuesday. Maybe that was something.

After loading John's boxes into the hatchback, Mike and John's stopped to buy some lunch. Mike was continuing with his near monologue.

"Oh, I'm under strict orders from Beth," Mike had begun then took a swig of his Coke. Mike had met Beth, his wife, during their third year at Bart's after John had dated (and dumped) her best friend. "I'm to invite you to tea and not take no for an answer."

"How is Beth? I'm sorry I missed the wedding, you know," John said almost sheepishly.

"Weren't you in Timbuktu or something?" Mike teased.

"Sierra Leone, I think. Never made it to Timbuktu," John replied. Mike paused for a beat.

"What was it, John? Chest? Torso?" he asked quietly, looking down.

"Shoulder," John said alternately clenching and stretching his left hand a few times. Then, much to his own surprise, he gave Mike an accurate clinical description of his injury.

"It's mostly OK, really, but that's me finished as a surgeon," he ended face blank again. Mike was sorry he had brought it up. He decided to change the subject.

"So, I've got to ask, what do you make of Sherlock?"

"He's completely mad!" John said without hesitation. "Brilliant. Absolute genius, but Jesus ..."

"A certifiable nutter," Mike supplied.

"Exactly. So I go to see the flat Wednesday night fully expecting it not to work out. You wouldn't believe it ... or, maybe you would, I don't know ... we weren't there fifteen minutes when in walks this detective inspector from Scotland Yard. Ten minutes after that we're in a cab headed to the scene of a murder in Brixton!" John launched right in to retelling all the night's events. Mike watched his friend listening intently. John was smiling broadly and there was a spark in his eye.

"I've never done anything so ridiculous in my life," John finished with a disbelieving shake of the head.

"And that says a lot coming from you, mate," Mike ribbed and John laughed.

"I'll tell Beth that you'll be by for tea a week from Sunday, then?" John smiled and nodded his assent.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uggh, I hope this is alright. 
> 
> Not Beta'd or Brit picked. Don't own, yadda, yadda...


	4. Of Tea and Crap Telly

John had just returned to Baker St. with his duffel bag, pack and suitcase. He was placing the last of his shirts and jumpers in the second draw of the dresser when Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door with a knock and a "hoo hoo".

"Forgive me, Dr. Watson," John interrupted her with a shy smile.

"John, please," Mrs. Hudson returned the smile.

"Alright, John. Everything happened so quickly last evening that we never had a chance to take care of the particulars." She placed a tenancy agreement on top of the dresser. "Of course, Sherlock holds the lease and you'll work the rent with him but I do like to have one of these on file for all my tenants. I know you've got your hands full at the moment," She looked appreciatively at the neat stacks of clothes and the perfect hospital corners on the freshly made bed then her face fell a bit. "You do know what Sherlock is like, don't you, dear?" John looked up at her. Why did everyone keep asking that question? Mrs. Hudson went on without waiting for a reply. "The state of my kitchen, in less than one day!" she sighed. "Well, you just get this back to me when you can." She patted the form twice then hurried back down the stairs before John could even say a word.

John finished unpacking his clothes from the duffel bag and suitcase and placed both in the wardrobe. He would have to find away to retrieve his boxes and other things from Harry's. Maybe Mike could help. He did volunteer, after all. He walked back to the dresser and picked up the Tenancy Agreement. It was a standard form that one could find on the Internet, and it asked all the standard questions, such as current employer, references from past landlords, and so on. Nothing that a 36 year-old professional should have any trouble providing. John sat on the bed and stared blankly at the form.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mrs. Hudson immediately took a liking to Sherlock's new friend, John. The doctor was ever so polite and helpful and he kept the upstairs neat, to the best of his abilities given Sherlock's residence. He never failed to open a door for her, or carry her bags, or whatever else she needed whenever they met. He even brought her bins around on pick-up day. She invited him in for a cuppa and he actually stood up when she came back into the room with the tray and waited for her to be seated before sitting again. Young people simply didn't do that today. He most definitely seemed like such a fine young man. That was why the _incidents_ were so inexplicable and odd.

First of all there was the tenancy agreement. He took three days to return it and even then he hadn't filled it out properly. He had put in his name and mobile number and that was it. His current employer was empty, for past landlords he had written none, and he had listed just a one personal reference. Then there was last Wednesday afternoon. She had popped up the stairs to check if they needed anything at the market. John was napping on the sofa. Sherlock and he had been out to all hours the previous two nights. She tried to sneak in without disturbing him to check the fridge but he woke so suddenly. In an instant he had spun around and was sitting on the edge of the sofa as if he were about to pounce. His eyes were wide and so afraid. He hadn't responded at all when she tried to apologize. He had just turned away and balled his hands into tight fists. She had left quickly without even checking the refrigerator. Finally, there was this morning with the silly light bulb. John had seemed happy and pleasant enough as he came down the stairs. He had seemed to not mind helping as usual but then, once she had shown him the light fixture on the basement stair, his face had immediately hardened and closed over. He curtly announced that he was sorry but that he couldn't help. Then he had walked away without a word or a backward glance. She hadn't seen him since.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"Sherlock, could I have a word," Mrs. Hudson finally asked later that afternoon as Sherlock came through the entry of 221 Baker St. Sherlock was just returning from Bart's after examining and cataloging the results from this week's mould crop. He eyed his land lady. She was wringing her hands, obvious distress, she had something to say that she thought would be upsetting. Feeling quite self-satisfied at the moment, given the success of his mould experiments, he decided to indulge her.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock followed her into her flat. "If it's about the _Rhizopus stolonifer_ samples in the bathroom cupboard I can assure you ..."

"It's about, John," Mrs. Hudson said bluntly. Sherlock looked at her confused.

"What about him?" The old woman continued wringing her hands.

"Well, Sherlock, I know you are ... fond of him and all and he is incredibly polite and well-mannered but I am a bit worried. How well do you actually know him?" Sherlock looked at her puzzled. The older women dropped her voice conspiratorially. "He's a doctor but he's not got a position, has he?" She nods at him knowingly, "And, he's got no history of tenancy, either."

"Then there's the other things. I think there could be something ... wrong with him. He'll seem so pleasant, helpful and kind then out of the blue he'll seem cross and walk away. Like this morning I ask for help changing a florescent light."

"Phosphorescent tube," Sherlock corrected picking the tube in its cardboard case up from where it sat on the counter.

"What?" Mrs. Hudson replied confused and Sherlock slid the device out of its package and was off.

"What's commonly referred to as a fluorescent light bulb is correctly called a phosphorescent tube. The concept was first explored by Alexandre Becquerel in 1857 later adapted for commercial use by Peter Cooper Hewitt in the 1860's. Is it the one on the basement stair?" He moved through Mrs. Hudson's flat toward the offending light fixture as he expounded. "Should have been replaced more than month ago given its current coloration and ..."

"Sherlock! Are you sure John is alright!" Mrs. Hudson nearly shouted over the detectives exposition. Sherlock froze considering the worried look on his land lady's face.

"What do you mean? Why would John not be alright?" he asked cautiously.

"Well, it's just as I said. He's got no job, no references. He's usually polite and lovely as can be but then all of a sudden he can be so distant and hard, or closed off, like he's lost. Are you sure you can rely on ..."

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock began with an air of patient, knowing condescension.

"I mean, after all, did you ever consider ..."

"Mrs. Hudson,"

"I'm not a suspicious person but there are people, not that John is one ..."

"Mrs. Hudson, he's a wounded veteran. Just back from Afghanistan." Sherlock announced bluntly talking over his land lady before returning his attention to the job at hand. He flipped the switch to the basement light on and off several times until the old tube caught and glowed with a purplish tinge. He smiled up at the device, phosphorescent tubes really were incredibly elegant. He turned it off, reached up to the overhead fixture and easily twisted the old tube out. He the handed it back to Mrs. Hudson who was standing gape mouthed with a slightly horrified look on her face.

"I can see why John declined. I doubt he could have managed this." Sherlock said casually. He turned back, reaching up with both hands to insert the new tube. "Shoulder wound, " he continued blithely completely oblivious to Mrs. Hudson's reaction. "A rather nasty one I suspect. He'd have had to have been significantly disabled to be invalided with his skill set." At this, Mrs. Hudson raised a hand to her mouth and slowly shook her head but Sherlock prattled on.

"His range of motion is definitely reduced, especially his overhead extension. I'm not surprised you haven't noticed really. He is rather stoic about it all and he compensates well. They say it's a difficult transition, former soldiers returning from service. I thought he's been coping quite nicely." He flipped the light switch once and the tube promptly flickered to life. He smiled up at his job well done. "That's it, then. And like I said don't give a thought to the mould samples. They'll be gone by next Friday." Sherlock gave Mrs. Hudson final perfunctory smile and swept out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson found herself back in her sitting room still holding the old tube. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her other hand still raised to her mouth. 'You never know who you're talking to,' she thought. John, a returning war hero. Poor, dear.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next evening just before EastEnders came on there was a knock on the door. Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see that it was John.

"May I come in, Mrs. Hudson?" he asked .

"Yes, of course, dear," she gushed and quickly stood aside to let him in. "Can I get you tea? I made some biscuits this morning if you'd like?" John shook his head smiling shyly.

"No, no. Mrs. Hudson. Don't put yourself out." On the telly, the theme music to the programme started. John took a deep breath and stood at parade rest.

"I just wanted to apologize for yesterday." Mrs. Hudson was about to cut in but John pressed on. "I behaved ... badly. The truth of it is I've ... injured my shoulder and I can't ..." John paused and looked at Mrs. Hudson who had both hands clasped in front of her mouth "You already know all this, don't you?" Mrs. Hudson nodded and John let out and exasperated sigh, "Sherlock?"

"Of course." Mrs. Hudson replied and John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, now I feel like a tit." John quipped as he shifted to stand hands loose by his side. His ear tips flushed red.

"Don't worry, he seems to make everyone feel that way, dear," Mrs. Hudson said waving it off. She was rewarded with one of John's radiant smiles.

"He does at that. Is this a new episode?" John asked pointing to the screen. Mrs. Hudson nodded.

"You ... wouldn't mind if I ... Sherlock's a bit annoying to watch telly with. Actually, Sherlock's just a bit annoying," he dead panned. Mrs. Hudson smiled.

"Not at all, dear." She fussed to straighten the afghan on the back of the sofa before offering him a place to sit.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mrs. Hudson began to make a point of checking on her new tenant regularly. She noted that John sometimes followed Sherlock out on cases but more often the detective went about his madcap inquiries and experiments as if his flat mate didn't exist. If she hadn't seen John out and about for a day or two she would be sure to pop up and ask him down for tea. Gradually, he began to stop by on his own. They would enjoy a nice cuppa and even watch a bit of telly to pass the time. She introduced him to Mrs. Turner and Mr. Chattergi and pointed out 'the married ones' to him. He never failed to compliment her baking and had been so positively potty over her apple cinnamon crumble she gave him the whole cake to take upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson enjoyed having the company, she really did, but she was still worried. John's visits always brightened her day but what did it say that this fine young man had so few prospects he spent his afternoons having tea with an old woman. She saw the worry in his face whenever he picked up his post filled with bills and overdue notices.

"You know, dear, there's a lovely surgery just over on Aybrook St," she said casually one day without looking at him while they watched a cooking show.

/-/-/-/-/-/

A few days later he handed her a slip of paper with his mom's risotto recipe while Connie Prince played in the background.

"Candy made with either toffee or hen," she read out loud teasing.

"Ah, that's 'Can be made with tofu or ham'," he corrected pointing to the messy scrawl of words on the page.

"Really, John, you doctors and your hand writing," she swatted him playfully. He started to reply in mock indignation.

"I'll have you know I got top marks for penmanship in school. This," he gestured to the sheet still making light, "this is only because ... " he stopped short as if suddenly realizing he about walk into a trap. He stood up straight and took a step back. His face became closed off. "I got shot," he finished quietly. Mrs. Hudson quickly tried to gloss over it.

"It's fine, dear, I can read it just fine. Does this serve 6 or 8?" she asked trying to change the subject.

"I still practice, you know, trying to make it look like my real hand writing," John continued. He was looking straight ahead not at Mrs. Hudson. His face was emotionless. Mrs. Hudson tried again.

"What does it matter, John. This is fine. You should see my sister Eleanor's writing. Do you use fresh or graded parmesan?" John huffed a humourless laugh.

"No, you don't understand. I am a surgeon. I'm supposed to be a surgeon with the RAMC. That's what I ..." He stopped short staring at his left hand. When he continued his voice was just above a whisper. "I was ... good and now I can never ..." Mrs. Hudson's heart broke as she listened. She had known loss like this. Four years ago, before Florida, she thought she had known what her future would be like, too.

"Things happen, John. They happen and change everything about how you thought your life would be." She looked away toward the collection of framed photographs on the wall. There were several conspicuous spaces.

"But then, those things, they become the past." She gave him a tight smile, "and there's room for new things.*"

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. There's no real reason. Just sorry. I hope you liked it. Please read and review.
> 
> *Mrs. Hudson's last words here are paraphrased from the New Beginnings post on John Watson's Blog.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit Picked. I may own many things but these characters are not among them.


	5. Initial Disclosure

John had bought high bond paper at the Ryman's on Baker St. and used Sherlock's printer to print four copies of his CV, or rather his old CV. This was the one that had gotten him into the NATO Medical Officer Exchange at the Mayo Clinic three years ago. John allowed him self to reminisce. It had been the most professionally interesting three months of his medical career. And bloody cold, too. Minnesota in winter? Really? Who goes to Minnesota in the winter? Only Massey, the Canadian, and Lairsen, the Norwegian, could stand the bone chilling cold. John, who had just returned from Iraq two months prior, had wished he had full Arctic gear it was that bloody cold. John's smile at the memory instantly faded as he stretched out the fingers of his left hand to dispel the tremor.

He thought about putting on a jacket and tie but decided against it. It wasn't like he was out to impress. He wasn't a GP. Or to be more precise, he wasn't only a GP. Besides, his brown corduroy jacket was ancient. John put the copies of his resume in a manila folder and donned his black coat. Sherlock was in the sitting room staring at the photos of the yellow graffiti from the bank. 

“I'm heading out for a bit. Need anything?” Sherlock did not so much as bat an eyelash in response and John did not linger over long waiting for one. 

The waiting room at the Aybrook St. Clinic was full when John approached reception. A boy, about four years old, with a very snotty nose, stared at him as he waited. Finally, the receptionist, Elsa, pointed him down the hall toward Dr. Sawyer's office. As he approached the door, a pretty if slightly frazzled looking woman with long blond hair and a lovely smile stepped out to meet him. John wished he had put on the jacket and tie.

Sarah Sawyer was a bit surprised and maybe a little underwhelmed by the applicant she greeted in the hallway. First of all, he was dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt with a cardigan like her grandfather had worn. No tie. And he was older than she expected. Usually, new graduates applied for locem jobs. This guy had to be mid thirties. He could have used a hair cut, too. They shook hands and she offered him coffee which he declined. He seemed reluctant or something. Not nervous, but something else she couldn't put her finger on. Well, this will be quick she thought. Too bad, they really needed somebody. Two somebodies would have been better. They entered her office and he handed her his CV and waited for her to sit down before sitting himself. He had retrieved the CV from a plain manila folder. He had no case or folio. Where had this guy last worked? Sarah started to quickly scan the page, whilst the back of her mind prepared the 'we'll let you know' speech. Half way down she stopped and went back to the top and began reading carefully. John sat in his chair legs crossed with a thoroughly neutral expression on his face. Sarah got to the bottom and started at the top again. She glanced up.

“Just locum work,” she said trying to sound casual.

“No, that's fine,” he replied. She reached the bottom of the page again and glanced up again.

“Well, you're a bit over qualified,” she pushed the hair back behind her ear nervously. He smiled at the compliment as if to say 'thanks for noticing'. She noticed the smile was nice. 

“I could always do with the money,” another smile. He was quite handsome when he smiled.

“Well, we've got two out on holiday and one's just left to have a baby,” John was nodding in agreement looking a bit circumspect. 

“Might be a bit mundane for you,” Sarah said thinking it best to be honest.

“Ah, no. Mundane's good, sometimes. Mundane ... works,” John tried to force a smile. Mundane work was, at least, work. He could almost hear Sherlock's retort in his head. _Job. Boring._

Sarah was scanning the CV again, “Says here you're a soldier.” 

“And a doctor,” he replied with a nod.

“Anything else you can do?” Sarah had to ask as she looked down at the list of stellar credentials.

“Learned the clarinet at school.” He huffed a small laugh and smiled that smile again. Sarah caught herself. 

“Oh, I look forward to it,” she joked. She brought him back out to Elsa who helped him settle the employment forms and then showed him the layout of the office. Two days later John Watson arrived promptly at 8:00 am for the day shift at the Aybrook St. Clinic carrying an extra-large coffee, cream, no sugar. 

/-/-/-/-/-/

As dates went, the night had been a disaster beyond all measure. Sarah was still wrapped in the blanket from the ambulance as they sat in the cab heading back to her place. At least the blanket wasn't bright orange. They were silent but Sarah held John's hand firmly with both of hers. John was having a bit of trouble focusing, his head was killing him. It took him a second to realize that Sarah was shivering again. With his free hand he pulled the blanket more tightly around of her shoulders. She leaned into him as fresh tears ran silently down her face.

When they arrived at Sarah's flat, John paid the cabbie. He was surprised that Sarah waited for him to do this. He had assumed that she would bolt inside as soon as the wheels stopped. He walked her to her door trying desperately to think of something to say. His quip in the tunnel about their next date seemed incredibly idiotic and even callous right now. He was shite as a civilian, he knew it. The last few months had proven that. He chose this kind of life. He purposely sought it out, but not Sarah. This was incredibly unfair for her. She was literally an innocent bystander caught in the cross fire. John felt vaguely sick at the thought of what had nearly happened tonight all because Sherlock had caught some criminal's attention. Sarah's hands were shaking so he gently took the key and worked the lock for her. He then turned to face her and said the first thing he could think of.

“Sarah, I am so sorry.” 

Sarah wiped her cheeks and stared into John Watson's eyes. They were a remarkable shade of dark blue. She looked into his eyes for a long moment and then said the first thing that came to her mind. 

“You're concussed aren't you?” It wasn't really a question. She pushed open the door and went inside and held the door for John.

“Have a seat,” she said pointing toward a kitchen chair. She fumbled in the freezer and came back with ice in a zip-lock bag. She checked the bandage the paramedics had put on the gash on the side of John's head. 

“Steri-strips will do.” John knew what she was doing. She had dropped into professional mode so she'd know how to behave. He gently caught her hand and looked into her face again. 

“I'm sorry. It's OK, it's all over. Let it go,” he said gently. Sarah stared back. How did he do that? She was a wreck. It was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears again. John was completely calm. He wasn't forcing or faking calm. This was genuine. He had been this way the whole ride home. Even before that. He was talking to her again except now he was up and moving about her kitchen.

“Here, have a seat. How 'bout some tea? Are you still hungry? I make a mean slice of toast.” He was holding up the loaf of bread from her bread box with his shy half smile. She smiled back. 

“I'm starving, actually.” She stood up an together they made toast and tea. 

/-/-/-/-/-/

John wasn't on the schedule at the surgery for the next 2 days and Sarah was off the day after that. He had called the next evening just to check on her but it was Sarah who broke the ice at work sitting with John to have lunch. That Saturday night they went to the cinema. The following weekend, John took Sarah to Angelo's. Angelo grudgingly provided a candle for the table.

John had been working at the Aybrook St. Clinic for almost a month when the incident happened. One of the workers, a young kid, really, at the construction site across the street managed to shove his arm through a plate-glass window. His mates in a panic carried him into the clinic. Sarah was at reception when they came in, blood spurting from the jagged laceration in the man's arm.

“Get John. Call 999,” she ordered Elsa as she led the gory entourage into an exam room. John came in as she was trying to fit a tourniquet. Peter, their resident ear, nose and throat man, was close on his heels. 

“Christ,” Peter cursed but John got straight to work as if he'd dealt with severed arteries every day, and Sarah realized she knew that he had. Sarah assisted John as Peter treated the swooning, Samaritan construction workers whose knees were buckling at the sight of all the gushing blood. Truth be told, neither Sarah nor Peter had ever seen a bleed like this either. John worked deftly making incisions and clamping off two of the bleeders before the ambulance arrived. He had then ridden with the kid over to UCH. The whole office was amazed that he returned an barely hour later, after a change of clothes, and spent the afternoon giving flu jabs and prescribing ammoxicillin to three year-olds with ear infections. He was as calm and relaxed as if nothing had happened.

That Friday afternoon while she and John were enjoying an after work pint Sarah finally asked the question.

“John, why the hell are you doing locum work in my surgery?” John froze his pint half way to his lips.

“You're an experienced surgeon. You're background is all in trauma and emergency medicine. You're damn good if the incident Tuesday was any sign. So why?” It wasn't accusatory, just a reasonable, innocent curiosity. John knew this but he balled his left fist and steeled his face anyway. He took a long pull of his Smithwicks. Sarah had the right to know. They were colleagues, after all. Hell, she was his boss.

“I was deployed to Afghanistan last June. I think I told you I'd been there. A few tours, actually.” Sarah nodded suddenly feeling a pang of dread about where this was going. 

“Well, I didn't exactly retire from the army.” John was purposefully studying his beer.

“I was invalided. I, um, I got shot.” John glanced at Sarah's not without trepidation. Sarah's was staring at him agog. He jumped in with the rest of his disclaimers.

“It's fine. I'm OK, really. It, well, it's just ...” He then gave Sarah a clinical description of his injuries similar to the one he had given Mike.

“So there you have it. I'm not really a surgeon anymore,” he said factually. "I probably shouldn't have treated that laceration Tuesday. It's just training took over, you know what I mean? And there weren't a lot of options.” Another shy smile. Sarah regarded him for a long time then she leaned in and kissed him on the forehead and then on the lips. It was the first time they had kissed in public.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – I always liked Sarah. Too bad it didn't work out. That part of the tale will be told in a separate Sarah chapter. Hope you liked it. Please read and review.
> 
> I don't own any of these characters. There's still over a month to go to 'til Season 3 in the US. It's just my coping mechanism.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


	6. Knowing the Worst

When Sherlock finally swept up the stairs of 221 Baker St. that first Friday Lestrade was long gone. John had also gone out. He immediately noticed that John had moved more of his belongings into the flat. Unlike his belongings John's things were neatly put away with books and journals in the left bookcase, kettle and other kitchen items stored in the kitchen cupboards. Sherlock smirked at the note taped to John's kettle. H2O ONLY was penned in careful block letters. A smallish flat screen telly rested on top of the bookcase and a laptop PC lay closed on the coffee table. Sherlock peered out the rear window in the kitchen. Six cardboard boxes were broken down and folded into a seventh and placed with the recycling next to Mrs. Hudson's bins.

He removed his coat and crossed to the sofa and picked up the laptop. The model was a few years old but it was running Windows 7 and the screen lock was on. His username, jhwatson, was utterly mundane which meant his password was likely to be weak. Barely 3 minutes later Sherlock had access but he didn't bother to snoop at files rather he opened a browser window and began a new search on genus _Stachybotrys*_. He hoped to begin cultivating some of its different species. About an hour later the computer's battery warning light came on but before logging off Sherlock removed his search from the browser history. He then glanced at the other entries in the history. Listed were his website, as John had said, several news sites, a weather site, a site for football scores,Veterans-Info-UK and, at the very bottom, the URL for a personal blog. Interesting. John didn't seem the type. Sherlock navigated to the page and scanned the few, terse entries. He was right, John wasn't the sharing on-line type at all. Clearly the blog was some sort of assigned exercise. Probably from his well-meaning yet apparently inept therapist. Minimal new data. Boring. He powered off the machine and placed it back on the coffee table. Sherlock then went over to the left bookcase and perused the titles. The books seemed to fall into two categories, paperback novels (a mix of best sellers and classics) and medical texts. Annoyingly there was no indexing scheme to the shelves other than book size. He sighed in despair. On top of the bookcase, next to the telly, was an unframed painting. It was a portrait of somebody historic, but there were no other pictures or mementos anywhere else. Odd. The bottom shelf of the bookcase contained several years worth of The Lancet and The Annals. At least these were arranged chronologically. Sherlock selected and thumbed through one of these journals. He replaced the volume and removed a pathology text instead. It was not one that he had read before. He was just about to settle into the black chair with the book when a thought hit him, John's gun. He smiled to himself, tossed the book onto the chair, strode to the stairs and took them two at a time.

The door to John's room was open. Sherlock entered without the slightest thought to John's privacy and immediately cast his gaze about the sparse room. Desk, dresser or night stand? Possibly the wardrobe but unlikely. If he was any good at all he'd only have to open one draw. Not the nightstand. John wasn't the fearful type. He wouldn't need to sleep with the gun close to have a sense of security. He was a professional soldier, the gun was simply a tool to him. The desk, then, was most likely, followed by the lower dresser draws. The draws on the left side of the desk should obviously be the best bet, John was left-handed, but at dinner the other night Sherlock noticed the trace of the power burn was on his right hand. After further consideration this made sense. John hadn't picked up shooting with his family as a boy, he had been taught to shoot in the army. Most likely he had been taught to shoot with his right hand because most military weapons tended to favor the right-handed. However, it was possible that his shoulder wound and the residual weakness in his left arm and hand had caused him to shoot with his right when he normally shot with his left. Unlikely. The shot had been too perfect and too spontaneous for it not to have been a practised maneuver. Sherlock crossed to the desk and opened the top right draw and there it was, a Browning L106A1 9mm. It was loaded and the safety was on, of course. He popped the cartridge, turned the weapon in his hands examining it and sniffed the barrel. The cartridge was missing one round but the gun itself had been thoroughly and expertly cleaned. It was pristine. There was no evidence that it had been recently fired. Sherlock smiled, Well done, John. The only way that this gun could possibly be tied to the cabbie was through rifling marks on the bullet but he knew for certain that the slug that forensics had dug out of the wall was thoroughly mangled. He replaced the gun in its place and went back down stairs. Instead of picking up the pathology text he turned to the mounds of boxes and began sorting his belongings and tidying up. Just a bit.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John was an idiot. Of that there was no doubt. He adhered to a rather dull and predictable daily schedule except when he didn't. He shopped and cooked food and cleaned up after himself. He was unfailingly polite, especially to Mrs. Hudson, and he was extremely careful with his money, what little he had going by his on-line banking statements.

Sherlock had noticed that when John was at home he often ate vegetarian (probably to economize) and that he was a reasonably competent, if basic, cook. For the first six days after moving into 221B Baker St. every time John made food or tea for himself he asked if Sherlock wanted any. Sherlock rarely bothered to answer. After three days of asking John began placing cups of tea in front of Sherlock even though the detective had made no acknowledgement. On the fourth day John lay a plate of toast and an apple next to Sherlock's morning tea.

"Eat," he commanded before crossing to the chair by the fireplace to idly read the paper and sip his own tea. Sherlock actually did.

After the first six days John simply brewed two cups of tea. He still offered to share whatever he made out of politeness but he also periodically placed food in front of the detective and issued the single word command. More often than not Sherlock ate at least some of what his flatmate fed him. He especially liked John's vegetarian risotto and his chicken pot pie because John made both with peas instead of carrots. Sherlock didn't care for carrots, too chunky and orange for his liking.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John wasn't happy to find the petri dish of healthy _Stachybotrys chartarum_ in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom.

"Jesus, Sherlock, what is this?"

"It's mould, John," Sherlock had replied sarcastically.

"Yeah, good. I got that but what is it doing here?"

John listened patiently with a slightly furrowed brow as Sherlock launched into the goals and methods for his mould experiment.

"It's quite unlike any other study conducted to date, the ramifications for forensics alone are likely to be very far-reaching," the detective concluded.

John paused for a beat then returned the dish to its place in the cupboard.

"Just keep it out of the toothpaste," he said as he moved into the kitchen.

Sherlock's eye widened. Toothpaste. A potential growing media he had never considered. John was brilliant.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"Throw me that tea towel, will you?" John asked as he balanced his laundry basket on the kitchen chair and casually held a hand up. Sherlock, who was busy placing a new mould culture in the rear corner of the cupboard, complied without turning around. He merely tossed the towel backwards toward the centre of the sound. John easily snagged the rag out of mid-air and continued into the loo to the stacking washer/dryer. Sherlock wandered in a few minutes later.

"Do you always do this?" he asked abruptly as John sorted his clothes into lights and darks, throwing the latter in to the washer.

"Do what?" John asked as he pointed to the bath towel on the rack next to Sherlock. The detective handed the towel over. "Just sorting my clothes like my mum taught me." John smiled tossing the towel and a flannel from the sink into the washer and starting the cycle. He paused it when he noted his flatmate was still staring at him with a curious expression.

"Did you have something else that needed to go in?" he asked innocently. Sherlock scrunched his face up at the question. John couldn't decide if he was perplexed or horrified.

"What?" he asked starting to get exasperated. It was just the bloody laundry.

"Mr. Lu's cousin runs an excellent laundry. Seven locations across the city. There's even one over on Linhope St." Sherlock offered helpfully.

"Good for Mr. Lu's cousin," John said dryly as he placed the basket with the next load in front of the washer then he caught up. "Wait. So every week you take all your clothes over to a laundry?" he wondered aloud.

"Oh, no. Don't be ridiculous, John." John nodded some how relieved by this.

"They pick-up and deliver." Sherlock smiled and turned away leaving John staring, mouth half-open, as he started the cycle again.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock was playing his violin standing in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. John was at the desk updating his blog. Sherlock stopped mid-phrase and lowered his bow.

"Herman?"

"Shut up."

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock enjoyed pursuing John's medical texts and journals. John had clearly been a conscientious student. The books were neatly highlighted and annotated with margin notes written a small, precise script. Similarly, many of the journals had articles earmarked with yellow sticky notes also written in a small meticulous hand. The handwriting so obviously matched John's precise, attentive nature. That was why seeing John's notebook was a bit of a turn up.

Sherlock had noticed that John always carried a pocket notebook and pen and dutifully made notes or sketches when they went to crime scenes. Sherlock couldn't see the point and ignored him. Besides, John usually missed everything of importance anyway unless Sherlock explained it to him. Clearly John needed to delete more of the useless _knowledge_ he clung to if he needed a notebook to remember important facts like crime scene details for more than a few days. It wasn't likely that he'd ever meet the Prime Minister or even his MP never mind that red-headed actress from the telly.

John had left his notebook on top of his PC in the sitting room and, of course, Sherlock felt compelled to flip through it. The pages were filled with a tight, untidy scrawl very different from the neat textbook notes. Reduction of fine motor skills probably as a result of nerve damage. Unfortunate. He tossed notebook back on the desk and opened John's computer.

Several days later Sherlock found his favorite pathology text on the kitchen table. When he retrieved it a folded sheet of loose leaf paper slid out. Sherlock open the sheet and noticed that it was filled with John's cramped, uneven handwriting. He began to read,

_Chapter 1 – Introduction_

_Pathology has long played a central role in medicine for  
one most know what injures and kills if one is to heal ... _

John had been copying the text like a school boy writing lines. Sherlock carefully placed the paper back inside the book and returned the book to the table. He could finish that article on flesh necrosis instead.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock thought nothing of it the first few times he heard John moving about the flat in the middle of the night. He, himself, was frequently up at what other people called odd hours. Why would that be something to note. In fact, he hadn't even noticed John's first two nightmares but gradually he saw the pattern. He would hear John suddenly thrash about in his sleep or sit bolt upright. Sometimes he cried out. It was obvious and to be expected he supposed. War was traumatic to normal people. Over the next several weeks he created a nightmare scale from 1 to 5. John did not get up after a One or a Two. After a One he usually fell back to sleep within 15-30 minutes and did not turn on his bed side light. After a Two he did switch on the light but still was usually able to go back to sleep within 45 minutes or so. After a Three or above John would get up and silently make himself tea. He then would either get Sherlock talking or read in his chair (a Three). Or, he would stare blankly at some inane television programming until dawn (a Four). Five was included in the scale for completeness to allow for a nightmare reaction beyond a Four but Sherlock hadn't observed one yet.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor behind his black chair under the window. He was working out the readability of different fonts and page tints under nocturnal ambient light conditions when he heard the strangled, incoherent cry followed by the sound of John bolting upright in bed. A Four. Damn. Not only was his work only half done, he would undoubtedly have to endure whatever crap telly John chose to anesthetize his brain with tonight. John steps were uneven as he descended the stairs, as was his gait as he made his way to the kitchen where he put the kettle on without turning on the light. He then stood rigidly at the counter with his hands clenched into tight fists. His breathing was measured. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. Abruptly, he inhaled sharply and let out what could only be described as a shuddering breath. He dropped his head, repeatedly scrubbing his right hand through his short hair, and blew out another shaky breath and another and another. His left arm was curled in tight around his body. Sherlock, who was completely at a loss, remained silent and motionless. He never seen John act this way before. Was this a Five?

Gradually John re-established his pattern of measured breathing. The kettle was boiling now and he reached up with his right hand to remove a mug from the cupboard. He stopped half way reaching up with his left hand instead forcing himself to extend his reach above his head to the second shelf. He pulled down one mug then reached up past the point of pain again for a second mug.

"Make some noise, would you. I-I know you're there," John said in quiet, almost tremulous voice as he kneaded his shoulder with his right hand. Sherlock hesitated then stuttered,

"Sorry ... I ...," and stopped. John finished making tea into the awkward silence. The only sound was his measured breathing. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four. After the tea was steeped John picked up both mugs, intending to bring them to the sitting room, but his left hand began to shake sloshing hot tea onto his hand. He cursed and quickly put the cups back down then swung his head over toward Sherlock and back again in embarrassment.

"John!" Sherlock had started toward the kitchen in alarm but stopped as John stiffened. More silence as John ran cold water over his left hand. Inhale, two, three, four. Exhale, two, three, four.

"You'll have to get your own tea. It seems I can't ... quite ... manage it," he finally bit out. He then dried his hand on the tea towel and turned to face Sherlock for the first time. He stood at attention, square-shouldered and head up, with eyes straight ahead focused on the sitting room wall past Sherlock's right ear.

"Flatmates should know the worst, yeah?" Sherlock, unsure of what to do or say, gave only a small shrug. John responded with a single tight nod before continuing.

"Well, I'm crippled ex-soldier with no job, little money, few relations and fewer prospects." His gaze and posture were unwavering as he awaited Sherlock's reply. Sherlock crossed to the counter and retrieved the mugs of cooling tea. He held one out to John.

"I know."

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry I've taken awhile to update. I'll blame the holidays. Yeah, it was definitely the holidays. Happy New Year!
> 
> According to Wikipedia: "Stachybotrys is a genus of molds, or asexually reproducing, filamentous fungi." And Wikipedia knows everything :-)
> 
> Stachybotrys chartarum is a species of supposedly toxic mold.
> 
> Also, for those unfamiliar, The Lancet is the famous British medical journal and The Annals is the chief publication of the Royal College of Surgeons.
> 
> The peas bit and the "Herman" bit are lifted from The Sign of Three. I've never laughed so hard in my life!
> 
> I wonder what the NSA makes of my browser history with the searches on toxic molds, 9mm hand guns, medical journals, violins, veterans benefits in the UK, kevlar vests, semtex and C4, etc.?
> 
> Please read and review. I promise to answer unless they take impound my computer ...
> 
> I don't even own the electrons this story was written with.
> 
> Not beta'd or brit-picked.


	7. The Colleague

Sally Donovan glanced sideways at the man. This was the fourth or fifth time he had followed the Freak to a crime scene. Presently, he was standing off to the side, out of the way, unlike the Freak who was center-stage, as always. Lestrade said he was some sort of former army doctor. She could buy that. He reminded Sally of a soldier, the way he usually stood at parade rest. He also wasn't shocked or put-off by the sight of the victims. He wasn't cold or callous about it like the Freak. No, this guy had compassion but he also had a thoroughly developed professional detachment. As she watched him out of the corner of her eye, Sally had a strong feeling he had seen worse, which was saying something given tonight's gory mess.

John Watson was his name. Lestrade acted friendly toward him and called him John. More remarkably the Freak called him John. And the Freak talked to him. Not just the berating verbal abuse he threw at everyone, he actually talked to him and _listened_ to what he said, almost like a ... conversation! Sally had even seen the Freak laugh at something he had said. She hadn't talked to him much since that night in Brixton although he usually offered her a polite, professional greeting when he saw her.

"Sergeant Donovan," he'd say, usually with a slight nod.

"Yeah. Hi," she'd reply curtly.

She never called him John or anything else, for that matter, and she wasn't quite sure why. It probably had to do with the fact that she thought the Freak had no right to be here, therefore the Freak's "colleague" had even less right. Still, she didn't dislike the man. She had no reason to. If anything he tended to keep the Freak in line a bit. Like right now. Anderson was trying (and failing) to have a go Holmes. In front of Lestrade, no less. Not the brightest sod, our Philip. They were going on about the relevance of some smudged foot prints. It was starting to get nasty. Sally was considering joining the fray but Watson cleared his throat and the Freak stopped mid-insult and changed tack.

"John," the Freak commanded after a beat, turning his back to Anderson and sweeping a hand toward the corpse.

Watson looked first at Sherlock then made an inquiring gesture to Lestrade, silently asking permission to examine the victim. Sally was impressed that he did this. At least he acknowledged that the DI was in charge here, not Holmes. He then moved in to squat next to the body, dawning latex gloves as did so. Anderson scoffed.

"Really, you need an _expert medical opinion,_ "Anderson air quoted the expert part, "on this one?" Sally saw John look up briefly at the sneer then return his attention to the body. Anderson went on,

"Can't you _deduce_ the cause of death?" The Freak was ignoring him focusing his laser-like gaze on the doctor who was continuing his examination.

"Well?" Holmes prompted in a tone of impatient interest rather than his usual one of utter condescension.

"Hmm..." was the only answer as the other man continued to work, brow furrowed. The body was a gruesome sight. A young woman with her face badly beaten and her throat cut, a large puddle of blood around her head and shoulders. The doctor, however, was studying her methodically and had lifted her jacket and shirt to palpate her abdomen.

"Oh for God's sake, isn't the fact that her throat's been slashed and her trachea exposed a clue here?" Anderson ranted and Donovan had to give him the point. John seemed oblivious to Anderson his attention locked on the body.

"Can I ... roll her on her side for a moment?" he asked Lestrade. His tone was polite and cordial as if he were asking to borrow a pen.

"Whatever you need," Lestrade replied with a shrug. Anderson shook his head in disbelief. The Freak looked fascinated.

John rolled the body and discretely lifted her jacket and blouse then rolled her back.

"Um, yeah. Female, mid-twenties. Cause of death was massive hemorrhage ... "

"You _think_?" Anderson broke in sarcastically gesturing with both hands at the pool of blood. John faltered for a moment.

"Do shut _up_!" Sherlock barked sharply before nodding for John to continue.

"Massive hemorrhage in the abdominal cavity caused by single blunt force trauma." John lifted the jacket to show a large but fairly innocuous looking bruise under her rib cage. However, the abdomen did look slightly distended.

"Laceration of the neck was secondary probably made several minutes after the abdominal trauma either just after or shortly before death." John looked up from his crouch. The Freak actually gave him a sort of smile.

"Blunt force trauma, huh? Really? What makes you say that?" Lestrade asked obviously impressed and genuinely curious. "I mean I don't see a likely weapon," he cast his eyes about the scene. Sally was interested, too, but the Freak just rolled his eyes. God, Sally wanted to punch him.

"There was no _weapon_ , Detective Inspector, save the commando-style knife that the killer used to cut her throat and then took with him. Ms. Trenhope," he indicated the corpse with a sweep of his hand,, "was first battered about the face and knocked to the ground. She was then murdered by an upward blow to her abdomen by an unshod foot delivered with sufficient force to rupture either her spleen or her abdominal aorta or both. Cutting her throat was merely window dressing. A final release of rage. You are looking for a male acquaintance, probably a jilted lover, with advanced martial arts training and both anger management and self-esteem issues."

"Wait. That's preposterous! Just _look_ at her. It's obvious ... " Anderson was sputtering again. The Freak rounded on him.

"What's obvious, Anderson, is your ineptitude. Unlike you, some people are able to avoid a rush to judgement and take the time to examine _all_ the data before forming a conclusion. Dr. Watson allowed for the possibility of ..." Lestrade broke in shouting over top of them.

"Shut it, the pair of you! I wasn't talking to you!" Then he turned to the doctor,

"Enlighten us, please," he said encouragingly. John straightened glancing first at the Freak, then at Lestrade, then back at the body.

"Well, it's just that her throat couldn't have been cut first," he said somewhat uncomfortable with the attention.

"But why not?" the DI asked earnestly still curious. Sherlock sighed and the DI sent him a withering look, or at least a look that should have caused withering of a normal person. John stiffened further almost coming to attention. Sally noticed that, by this point, everyone at the scene had stopped what they were doing and were waiting to hear what this guy had to say. The doctor glanced around at the expectant faces turned his way then back at Lestrade again. He nodded once before continuing in a voice that was eerily calm and even.

"Right. When a person suffers a deep laceration to the throat like this it take them several minutes to die. It's rather ... messy. Blood squirts and sprays everywhere, over everything. It doesn't pool like this until the blood pressure is very low, near death. Also, um, this isn't nearly enough blood," he pointed to the large puddle. "There must have been another bleed."

Silence. Everyone was silent. Lestrade, Anderson, McAdams and Toft, who were supposed to be talking photographs, Mercer, Blake, the Freak, everyone. John shifted, clearing his throat, and looked at his shoes. Sherlock finally broke the spell but even he looked almost surprised by the detailed explanation.

"Well, Lestrade, as I'm sure the post-mortem will support Dr. Watson's findings, I stand by the deductions provided. Call me when you've located the ex-boyfriend. Coming, John?"

With that, the Freak flipped up his coat collar, whirled on the spot and headed off under the blue and white tape. John self-consciously glanced around the scene once more and followed. Sally watched him as he went.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Two days later, Donovan knocked on Lestrade office door before entering to deliver the pathology report on Amy Trenhope.

"Cause of death massive internal bleeding from a ruptured abdominal aorta the result of blunt force trauma," she said as she handed the report over. Lestrade took the file and began thumbing through it.

"Anything on her friends, boyfriends?" the DI asked without looking up.

"Ah, no. Nothing, really. Not yet. She was new to London, only lived here about a year. No friends that we've found so far," Sally answered. She stood in place.

"What?" Lestrade asked looking up at his DS.

"I was just thinking, about the other night. He's seen it before, hasn't he? First hand. That's how he knew."

"You mean John and the ... ?" Lestrade waved a hand in front of his throat. Donovan nodded. The DI huffed out a breath and tossed his pen on to the desk and thought of the service record he had read.

"Yeah ..." he said slowly. "I gotta imagine he has." Donovan shook her head and turned toward the door.

"Jesus," she said quietly.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Amy Trenhope had been a soldier. That was one of the few things Donovan had been able to determine about the woman in four days of digging. She had enlisted after secondary school and served four years. She had been trained as a logistics and supply specialist. She had been stationed mostly at home except for 6 months in Africa and another 6 months in Canada. After an honourable discharge and two months of working for shipping company in her home town of Otley, she suddenly moved to London a year ago visiting home only once at Christmas. The 450 sq. ft. attic flat in the East End that she lived in at the time of her death was her third residence since coming to the city. Her neighbours barely recognized her photo when Donovan showed it to them and they hadn't even known her name. She had been working as a temp at a lorry hire company but none of the employees there knew anything about her never mind any male acquaintances.

Sally had just read through Amy's service record and was adding it to the thin file she had compiled when she saw the Freak and his shadow enter Lestrade's office. Shit. Two minutes later Lestrade was calling her into his office along with Anderson and Mercer.

"No boyfriends," Donovan said sharply as she handed Lestrade the file. She then briefed her boss on her findings concluding by saying that as far as she could tell Amy Trenhope had no friends, close or otherwise, in London. Lestrade leafed through the folder as she spoke then handed it to Sherlock

"So much for the jilted, angry ninja theory," Anderson snarked. Holmes ignored him scanning the file before handing it to Watson.

"Well, Sherlock? Any ideas?" Lestrade asked.

"Come now, Detective Inspector, it's rather obvious. It's staring you and our diligent Sally here right in the face," the Freak drawled and Sally clenched her teeth so hard they hurt.

"What is?" asked Lestrade in frustration.

"Amy Trenhope didn't move to London to find her future. Temp jobs, three flats in 11 and a half months. No, she's been hiding here. The question is from who? You're looking for a past boyfriend or male acquaintance whose advances were rebuffed. Someone who's been stalking her ever since. Looks like Sergeant Donovan will need to be digging deeper in her background investigations. I here Otley is nice ..."

"Huh, I'll be damned," John said quietly to himself still looking at the folder. Sally had almost forgotten he was in the room.

"Something you wished to add, John?" the Freak turned to face the other man. John looked up, his ear tips flushing red.

"Ah, no, no. It's just ..." he pointed to the file.

"Anything you have to add will certainly exceed all the other contributions currently coming from the room," the detective huffed.

"It's just," John laid Amy Trenhope's case file on Lestrade's desk and pointed to a name. "Alexander Finch-Bancroft, the commanding office of Amy's old unit. I know him."

"You know him? Really?" Lestrade started. "Do you know him well enough to get us access? Maybe to talk with the people she served with?" John blew out a breath.

"I don't know. Maybe. I haven't seen him in a few years but we we're at Sandhurst together, he'd probably help us out," he offered.

Sandhurst, really? Sally guessed it only made sense given what Lestrade had said about him but she was still impressed.

" _You?_ Passed out of Sandhurt?" Anderson scoffed derisively. The Freak rounded but John answered first.

"I was an officer in the Queen's Army, of course I was at Sandhurst," he shot back in a dangerously even, steel-backed voice. Anderson nearly quailed in response. The Freak smiled.

Lestrade jumped back in, "Well, John, if you're willing to give him a call it'd probably be a big help."

The doctor nodded his assent.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next morning found Sally Donovan driving to the headquarters of the 21st Engineers in the company of John Watson. She had initially thought that the hour-long car ride would past in awkward silence and was surprised to discover that John Watson was good company. He started by playing navigator with a paper map.

"I've never been to this base. Actually, I rarely get out that way at all but it looks like it's not far off the M3."

Sally just shot him a sideways glance and pushed the button that turned on the GPS in the center console of the unmarked police car.

"Well, that works, too." he said with a good-natured smile.

They chatted about the victim and some of the other cases that Lestrade's team was working on. John noted an advert for the new Iron Man 2 movie and commented that he'd like to see it. Sally had already seen it and gave him a spoiler-free review. They got stuck in traffic for a while and John passed the time by making outrageous, Freak-style deductions about their fellow motorist. Sally nearly snorted coffee out her nose at the one about burly tattoo-covered lorry driver. _Impotent, mama's boy with a fetish for painted toe nails._

/-/-/-/-/-/

Major Alexander Finch-Bancroft came out to meet them personally when they finally arrived at the reception desk.

"Watson! How the devil are you?" he boomed in greeting shaking John's hand and clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good, Xander. I'm good," John answered with a smile.

"Well, I'm glad. Delighted, actually. You sure know how to put us all through the wringer, don't you?" Finch-Bancroft's said smile flickering.

"Yeah." John's smile faded altogether and he looked down.

"So, how can we help you here today?" the major pressed on rather too brightly.

"Ah, right. I'd like to introduce Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan of New Scotland Yard. Sally, this Major Alexander Finch-Bancroft, Commander, Bravo Company, 21st Engineers."

"Pleasure to meet you," Sally offered shaking the major's hand.

"As I said on the phone, the Met is investigating the death of one of your former enlisted soldiers, Amy Trenhope," John continued.

"Dreadful, that. We hadn't heard," the Major said shaking his head and looking genuinely distressed.

"Yes. Well, Sergeant Donovan would like to talk to anyone who might have known her. Is that something that could be arranged?" John had slipped into parade rest.

"Certainly." Finch-Bancroft turned to address a young Lieutenant sitting at a desk behind him.

"Blakely." The young man quickly stood and joined their group.

"Blakely, escort Captain Watson and Sergeant Donovan to the conference room. See that they have whatever they need. Use Farrell and Spinney if needed"

"Yes sir," the lieutenant answered crisply and eyed John. "If you'd follow me, sir," he added talking to John.

The major was true to his word. Lt. Blakely set them up in the medium-sized conference room down the hall from reception. He and Sergeant Farrell supplied them with a list of all members of Trenhope's unit who were still serving and on-base. They also helped prioritize the list as to who was likely to have known her best. The short list consisted of nine names. Blakely summoned each in turn and Sally and John interviewed them.

None of the nine soldiers matched the expected profile but they did provide names of additional friends and acquaintances both in and out of the army. Three of them mentioned the same possible boyfriend. Apparently, Amy had become involved with a Canadian soldier, named McKay, while she was stationed in Vancouver. One of the female soldiers described the man as "handsome and very fit but a bit creepy, if you know what I mean". Blakely didn't have any information on the man but Farrell was able to chase down the contact information for the commanding officer of the Canadian unit to which Amy had been attached. It was a long shot but this McKay and the other names were a lot more than Sally had had yesterday.

Sally had noticed throughout the day that everyone treated John not only with the respect that his rank was due but also with additional deference. From the moment they had arrived on base John had slipped effortlessly into his military persona. He didn't wear a uniform or give any orders but he didn't have to. He was in his element here and there was no mistaking it. She thought of how he was treated, how she treated him, at crime scenes, usually shunted to the side or ignored until the Freak called on him. She looked across the room. He was talking with Finch-Bancroft, Blakely and two other officers, smiling and laughing. The way he fit so well here made her wonder, even more, what the hell he was doing with the Freak.

/-/-/-/-/-/

It was nearly 6 pm by the time they returned to New Scotland Yard and briefed Lestrade. Thankfully the Freak wasn't there. Lestrade was impressed and thanked John again. John gave them a warm, slightly self-conscious smile before heading back to Baker St. Despite the hour Sally launched herself into following up on the Canadian soldier. It was only 10 am in Vancouver, after all. By midnight Donovan had her chief suspect. Garth McKay was a master corporal with the Canadian Special Operational Forces Command who was currently listed as AWOL. A member of an elite SOF team, he had been demoted from sergeant last year because of an incident during a hand-to-hand combat exercise where he put another soldier in hospital. _Martial arts training and anger management issues._ God, she hated it when the Freak was right.

The next morning Lestrade authorized Sally to conduct a facial recognition search on flights from Vancouver. The following afternoon they had a hit. Garth McKay had arrived at Heathrow seven weeks ago. He was traveling under the name Seth McMann. Although they had a name, a face, an entry date, and a dead girlfriend they had nothing on his current whereabouts. Enter the Freak. Within an afternoon he had deduced five possible bolt holes. McKay was found in the four, a grimy 3rd floor walk-up at the end of a warren of alleys in Edmonton. He did not come quietly. The stand-off lasted three hours and ended when a Met SFO team stormed the flat taking McKay out with a glue gun and a taser.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"So how long were you in for?" Sally asked John casually as they stood waiting while additional officers arrived to help mop up the area.

"Almost 18 years," John replied.

"Really?" Sally was surprised.

"Mm, hmm. Enlisted after secondary school. How about you? How long have you been with the Met?" John asked with an interested smile.

"Me? Eleven and a half years. Started right after school, too. " John nodded.

"You're a doctor, though. You went to medical school?" Sally asked the tenacious bull dog in her starting to come out.

"And you made detective sergeant from constable," John said deflecting good-naturedly before relenting. "The army sent me to Bart's. How'd it work for you?"

"I went to uni part-time on the side," Donovan answered undistracted.

"The army sent you? You mean a cadetship?"

"Yup." John nodded again.

Lestrade and the Freak had now joined them but Sally and John continued their conversation as they all made their way out toward the main street.

"Then Sandhurst? When did you get your commission?"

"August 25th, 2000." John said idly and Sally nodded. Sherlock smiled to himself. He was right. He'd deduced that John had been commissioned in 2000.

"So were you stationed here or overseas or what?" Sally continued.

"A mix but I've done seven tours overseas and plus a NATO exchange to America."

Sally was genuinely impressed. She shook her head and smiled as they approached the entrance to the alley. Her next question was born of innocent curiosity like all the others. It was never meant to be cutting but that did not dull its bite.

"So why'd you give it up?"

The effect was immediate. All levity was instantly gone. Lestrade froze mid-step quickly casting glances between her and John. If his non-verbal message was unclear, the Freak's was not. His translucent blue-green eyes shot daggers at her. It was John, who looked like he had just been punched, who spoke first.

"Um. Ready?" he said quietly to the Freak hooking a thumb toward the street.

"More than," Holmes said coldly, his eyes still boring into her. He turned and swept toward the street. John followed.

"Call me, Lestrade," the Freak called over his shoulder as a cab slowed in front of them allowing John to enter the cab first. When the cab had disappeared around the corner, Sally turned to Lestrade,

"What the bloody hell was _that_ about, then?" she asked sharply but Lestrade could see her confusion and concern under the bluster. Lestrade looked at his DS and then around at the other officers who were still working the scene. He then looked back in the direction of the corner for several seconds before he spoke.

"Take a walk with me, Sally."

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – OK, this was really hard to write. I felt the case had to be in there but writing the case was really tough. I hope it works and Sally stayed in character. As you've probably noticed the chapter's are not strictly chronological. The some of them kind of overlap. I hope it's not too confusing.
> 
> Please read and review ...
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.
> 
> I own nothing.


	8. Neither a Soldier nor a Civilian

Even after he moved into 221B Baker St., John still often felt like a fish out of water. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was never meant to be a civilian. Ella was wrong, he would never adjust. Not really. Sometimes John was certain he had landed on Mars instead of back in London. Dingy weekly-let bedsits, chip and pin machines, lunatic genius flatmates, murderous cabbies, omniscient CCTV surveillance, tenancy agreements, inspectors from Scotland Yard? How had this become his life? He contemplated this strange, new reality as he walked the outer circle of Regent's Park. He had just snapped at Mrs. Hudson, again. Over a stupid light bulb, of all things. She was possibly the sweetest landlady in all of England. How could he have done that? He rolled his shoulder, it ached today. He needed to do better, to be better, to adjust already! No one since his Gran had been so kind to him. Mrs. Hudson was an absolute treasure he would apologize to her.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sometimes John found it hard to organize his days. He was used to structure and regimentation and now there was none. He still woke early, he read the papers, he did his mobility exercises, he practised his handwriting (although neither had improved much in months), he kept up with his professional journals, he went to the shops, he tidied-up around the flat, and he worked on his blog. That still left him with far too much time on his hands. That time was soon being increasingly filled by Sherlock's madcap doings. About three weeks after moving into Baker St., Sherlock dragged him off to another crime scene. Well, dragged was too strong of a word. John had practically jumped at the opportunity. The crime this time was theft. A DVD containing the prototype for a new blockbuster on-line game had been stolen from the home office of a dot-com mogul. The thing was the house had security system that rivaled the British Museum's. This was far outside his areas of expertise but John did his best to be useful, making notes and sketches of the scene, and writing down the technical details of the security system in his pocket notebook He even talked to the family members. In the end Sherlock needed none of it. He deduced that it had been the CEO's fourteen year-old daughter who had hacked the system to gain her father's attention. He actually congratulated the girl on her bold ingenuity. John had just found the girl shy and socially awkward. Afterwards, they stopped for Thai food. John wasn't sure what, if anything, he had contributed to the case. He only knew that it was far better than watching daytime telly with Mrs. Hudson.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Still, John did sometimes wonder what the Hell he was doing. Tonight was a case in point. It was cold and raw and he was standing in a rubbish-strewn alley unable to avoid looking at the corpse of young woman who had been viciously murdered. Who did that? Who spent their free time at violent crime scenes? Sherlock Holmes, that's who. He shivered a bit inside his coat trying to chase the chill. His shoulder ached and his fingers felt numb. He stretched his left hand out inside his pocket. Donovan was looking at him out of the corner of her eye again. Sherlock and Anderson were arguing over a foot print or something while Lestrade tried to referee. Why had he come? What was he doing here? Between the cold and his general unease, his patience was beginning to wear a bit thin. He cleared his throat to catch Sherlock's attention. The detective abruptly turned to face him as if just remembering he was there. He then swept a hand at the body inviting John to examine it, all while wearing a supremely smug, self-satisfied look. _Right, I'm here to help him make a point, again_ , John thought dryly. Anderson let out a derisive snort. John looked at him. He hadn't even said a word yet and Anderson was scoffing at him?

John had loved being a soldier, every minute of it (well, almost every minute), but he had never considered himself overly attached to military formalities. He had never been too enamoured with rank, for example. At the beginning of his last tour he had actually been eligible for promotion to major but he had liked his posting, and that posting had been for a captain so a captain he remained. At the moment, however, by God, he missed his rank. The truth was John Watson was used to being accorded a certain level of courtesy, if not respect. _Sergeants_ called him sir. His professional opinion was valued, rarely challenged and _never_ scoffed at. He was just trying to help out here. He looked to Lestrade. The detective inspector seemed to trust Sherlock implicitly. Somehow, that trust now extended to him, as well. The DI nodded his approval so he stepped up to examine the body. Anderson, be damned.

John wasn't a pathologist but he knew for certain that the throat laceration was not the cause of death here. Beckwith flashed through his mind and he quickly pushed the image away. There had to be something else, another bleed somewhere. He began his examination at the top and worked his way down. He palpated her abdomen. Yes, there it was. Then he rolled her to examine her back to confirm the lividity. Right. He gave his findings. Apparently they were what Sherlock had expected because he smiled before launching off on his deductive tirade. Christ, how did he do that? It really was amazing. The police were experts, not nearly as dumb as Sherlock maintained, and they hadn't seen any of it. Brilliant.

John saw that Lestrade was equally impressed. Anderson, however, was not. He and Sherlock were at it again. John stood up wondering if he should do something but Lestrade intervened first. The DI was still curious and interested in his findings. He was asking John for more detail all while Anderson was still scornful. John wondered how he gotten into the middle of this. He then thought of Beckwith again. Of the round that had sliced through the young corporal's neck. Of his and Murray's vain attempts to stop the blood shooting from the kid's carotid artery in pulsating jets. Jesus, he really did not want to explain but Lestrade was looking at him expectantly. Christ, everyone was looking at him now. Right. He straightened. Glancing back at the DI he nodded once then spoke. He knew how to report.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Later that night, or early the next morning, to be precise, Sherlock was ensconced in his chair, deep into John's pathology text, when he heard the strangled cry followed by the sound of John bolting upright in bed. A Four.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Five days later, John found himself visiting the headquarters of the 21st Engineers in the company of Sally Donovan. Alexander Finch-Bancroft, his Sandhurst classmate, was the CO of Amy Trenhope's old unit. _You couldn't make this stuff up_ , he thought as he and Sally headed down the M3. Before yesterday afternoon's phone call, John hadn't seen or talked with Finch-Bancroft in at least five years, probably longer. Xander Finch-Bancroft was tall and slightly gangly with an air of geek about him. XFB they had called him at Sandhurst. The meaning of the initials had varied with the context. In an academic setting, Xander, the graduate civil engineer, had been eXtremely F****** Brilliant. When too much alcohol and too few women were involved he had been eXtra F****** Big, with any number other incantations in between. John remembered being quite grateful that his classmates were never able to do much with JHW. That 'Three Continents' nonsense had been bad enough.

Xander had met Donovan and himself at reception and had extended them every courtesy even so far as making his aide and his staff sergeant available to them. John had never had any dealing with the Engineers but he found him self slipping easily into the familiar feel of the base. Blakely, Farrell and the other soldiers all called him captain and sir and he honestly hadn't even noticed. He was entirely at home here.

By the end of the day John was quite impressed by Sally Donovan. She handled herself well with the predominantly male soldiers efficiently and expertly interviewing all nine. There was no mistaking that this was her investigation and she knew what she was doing. John had a final word with Xander thanking him for Blakey's and Farrell's assistance then he and Donovan had been off. The traffic was not too heavy on their way back to the Yard and they made it there by 6 pm. Lestrade thanked John profusely for his help although he wasn't really sure he had contributed much of anything beyond the introductions. All in all, it had been a good day.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sally Donovan was one very good cop. At least John thought so. Less than two days after their trip to the 21st Engineers, Sally had identified the Amy Trenhope's "boyfriend" as an AWOL Canadian Special Ops soldier. She had even traced his entry into Britain under an alias. The next day the Met, following a series of Sherlock's deductions, caught up with the man in a grimy hovel. They were finally able to apprehend him after a three-hour stand-off.

"How long were you in for?" Sally had asked him casually, after the stand-off, while they waited for the scene to be cleaned up. John was surprised. He considered this substantial progress seeing as a week ago Sally barely said "Hello" to him. He answered and they continued with a friendly back and forth as they made their way out to the main street. Then Sally asked one more innocuous question,

"So why'd you give it up?"

He hadn't been expecting it and wasn't prepared to answer. Both Sherlock and Lestrade had stopped dead. How the devil did Lestrade know? He suddenly had that awkward, out of place feeling, again.

"Um, ready?" he said to Sherlock, ignoring Sally's question, and moved to hail a cab.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John was silently staring out the window of the cab, oblivious to the city sliding by. The detective was sitting back in his seat thinking, not quite sure of the appropriate course of action. Emotions were involved thanks to Donovan. The case was over and he was hungry but he thought it unlikely that John would be interested in food at present. He stole a side-wards glance at his flatmate,

"Donovan is an idiot," he declared adamantly. John answered in a flat voice, his eyes still fixed out the window.

"No, no she isn't. She really isn't. She just doesn't ... didn't ... know."

He turned and gave his flatmate a hint of a smile.

" _Most_ people can't tell, you know. At least not right away. At least I don't think they can." His voice trailed off and he looked away again.

"That doesn't mean she's not an idiot. She spends far too much time with Anderson for it not to rub off," Sherlock continued now trying to make light.

John smiled weakly toward the window. Abruptly he blew out a deep breath and sat up straight admonishing himself. He needed to handle this better.

"Look, it's OK, really. I was fortunate. It's part of my life now. I'm fine. It's all ... fine."

Sherlock's gaze sharpened to a glare and he snorted sarcastically. The retort rolled effortlessly off his tongue,

"Is that what passes for therapy these days? Count your blessings and think happy thoughts? Really, John. Why you even bother with that meta-science nonsense is beyond me."

John slowly turned to face Sherlock. He stared at his new friend for a long time. At first Sherlock met his gaze smugly but gradually the detective's certainty wavered. John's expression was not one of shock, exasperation or anger. Sherlock was well acquainted with such reactions and could easily counter them. Instead John gaze was thoughtful, patient and knowing. Sherlock found he could not look away. He knew that John's reactions frequently deviated from expected norms but this was different. It was as if John _knew_ of things that Sherlock did not.

As John regarded Sherlock he almost had to keep himself from smiling at detective's wildly inappropriate comment. He allowed himself some time to absorb the irony that his brilliant flatmate knew so much yet often understood so little. John suddenly flashed to those last desperate moments of consciousness in the evac helicopter and the sight of Bill Murray's face, eyes wide in fear, as he screamed John's name. He blinked several times to clear the memory. Then he looked at Sherlock again, considering the confusing and confounding new life he found himself in.

"I am fortunate, Sherlock. Very, very fortunate. I'm alive."

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Eek. I'm not sure about this one. I hope it actually reads something like it sounds in my head. Basically, my idea here is that this is John's view of John and his transition.
> 
> Still not beta'd or Brit picked – I know, I really should...
> 
> I own not a thing.


	9. From the Desk of the British Government (part 1)

Mycroft sighed and tossed the report onto his desk. His dear, younger brother was being evicted again. So typical. He simply did not have the time to deal with this now between the reports from Korea and the rumours from Serbia. Plus, Mummy and Daddy were off the day after tomorrow to the European Philatelic++ Convention in Moravia. He didn't have the heart to tell them and possibly sour their trip. Maybe it was high-time Sherlock dealt with the consequences of his actions by himself. Mycroft allowed himself a slight, self-righteous smirk at the prospect before returning his attention back to matters of state.

Sherlock stared blankly at the eviction notice. _Rent three months in arrears._ Why hadn't Mycroft ... Oh, that's right, he had told Mycroft to bugger off back in September. Well, he could right that. He had his own funds, after all. He wasn't a child. The detective scanned the rest of the letter, _numerous complaints of noise, unnatural stench, fire hazards, odd and disreputable company, blah, blah, blah._ He humphed as he removed his dressing gown and donned a jacket in preparation for visiting his perpetually melancholic landlady two floors below. He knocked on the door and plastered on his most contrite, scolded school boy face. He never got the chance to use it.

"Hello, Mrs. McCracken. Lovely day. About this letter there must be some misunderstanding I ..."

That was when Mr. McCracken, all eighteen stone of him, wrenched the wide door open. Standing greasy haired and pock complected in a stained white vest and blue tube-driver trousers, he removed an acrid smelling stub of a cigar from his mouth before pointing the glowing end directly between Sherlock's eyes. _Nicotiana rustica*_ , _medium gray, large, flaky ash._

"You. End a' month. Gone." He had then slammed the door in Sherlock's face so hard that the wall shook.

 _Happy New Year to you, too,_ Sherlock had thought sarcastically as he mounted the stairs back to his soon-to-be-former flat. He sighed. This would undoubtedly result in interaction with Mycroft. Tedious. Perhaps he would by-pass his brother this time and find a suitable place in London on his own. Mycroft had arranged this place, after all, and look how unsatisfactory it was. Sherlock petulantly snapped open the newspaper and began scanning the realty adverts. He sighed again. Moving, boring.

John Watson stood at the ATM staring at his account balance. He had just deposited his second monthly pension cheque, not that you'd notice. His rent at the horrid bedsit the MoD had arranged for him was more than half. After groceries and utilities that left him a whopping 62 quid. One month and he had already dipped into his savings. He needed to find a job, which meant he would have to actually start looking for one. He turned away from the machine determined to continue on his daily walk. Walking helped. The leg was getting better, he told himself. To which he answered himself that the bloody leg was perfectly fine. He grit his teeth and began concentrating on shifting weight off of his cane. One step, two, five. Maybe he could do this today. Ten, eleven. He was passing a bus stop and there was a press of people exiting the bus. Someone jostled him and he staggered a step putting full weight on his right leg. A sharp stab of pain exploded in his mind. Was it his leg, his shoulder, his chest? He couldn't tell. He hopped and limped across the sidewalk to the lean against the building and hissed out a breath trying to regain his control. A woman was apologizing to him. John was looking past her his ear tips flushing red. _Fine_ , _I'm fine, it's fine_ , he heard himself say before being distracted by the need to shove his trembling left hand into a pocket. Jesus, who was he trying to fool? He was a mess. He could never find work, never practice medicine like _this_. The woman gave one last look of concern before continuing on her way. John limped off in the opposite direction. What the hell was he going to do?

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft massaged his temples as he read today's report. _221 Baker St., owned by Martha L. (Sissons) Hudson, widow of minor American drug boss, Frank G. Hudson (convicted, double homicide, State of Florida, 3/10/2003, executed by lethal injection, 19/1/2007)._ Surely not! No longer able to sit idly by, he fired off a text to his dear brother.

_Westminster, really? Need I remind you, brother mine, that your trust_

_fund stipend remains fixed.You know Mummy and Daddy agree with_

_me on this point. I suggest you pursue options morein league with_

_your finances. MH_

 

Sherlock scoffed derisively as he read the text. Damn Mycroft and his constant meddling. Mrs. Hudson was one of the few clients he remembered well. She had been absolutely delighted to see him and had even offered him a special rate on the upstairs flat. Originally, he had gone over to look at the smaller unit, 221C, but that was basement flat. While it would have been an ideal environment in which to continue his mould experiments, he hadn't much liked the look of the place. Then Mrs. Hudson had shown him 221B. Inexplicably, he felt a sudden affinity for those rooms and had asked to lease the flat on the spot. He had begun moving boxes in the very next day. The rent was almost double that of his old flat, however, so he lamented to Mike Stamford about the high cost of living in London while he examined chips from several types of green paint.

"It's a two bedroom, didn't you say? Why don't you get a flatmate to split expenses?" Mike offered earnestly, trying as ever to be helpful. Sherlock sublimated his impatience. He needed to cultivate Mike's good will in order to retain his lab access.

"Surely, you might have surmised, Mike, that I would be a rather difficult person to share a flat with." He faked a self-deprecating smile before returning to the Work.

"I suppose, but rents being what they are, you never know who might be in similar straits," Mike added jovially. Sherlock didn't so much as glance up from his microscope. Mike shook his head. Maybe the git was right. Pity upon any poor sod stuck with him as a flatmate.

"OK, I'm off out. Remember, Philson's Advanced Organic Chem has the room at 3 pm."

John was feeling very frustrated after his appointment with Ella. She was still insistent about the stupid blog. Nothing happened to him. How many ways could he say it? How was a blog supposed to fix his leg or his hand, get him a job or stop the damn nightmares? The only good it had done was put him back in touch with Bill Murray. Actually, that was part of his frustration. Bill was doing great and getting on with life while John remained stuck fast. John stewed over the session, face glowering, as he walked. Walking helped. It was a fine day for January, he decided to walk through Postman's Park behind Bart's and then down to catch the Tube at St. Paul's.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft immediately sat up straight upon seeing the latest report. His brother had moved into 221B Baker St. despite the expense and his explicit disapproval. Childish. What was more, he had plans to interview a potential flatmate that very evening. A flatmate? Good Lord! He instructed his assistant to assemble a dossier on one John Watson, MD within the hour.

As Mycroft perused the file his mind seized upon any and all potential weaknesses. Former soldier recently discharged after being invalided home from Afghanistan. A doctor but currently unemployed and likely unemployable due to physical disability and a diagnosis of PTSD. No immediate family excepting one alcoholic sister, estranged. Working class upbringing. Respectable bank balance for a career army officer, but insufficient to adequately augment his army pension in the long term. Minimal debt, so far. Experiencing difficulty in adjusting to civilian life. Psychosomatic limp. In therapy. Mycroft sat back steepling his fingers under his nose. There was nothing illicit here but he had enough to work with. He would arrange his own interview with the man. Tonight. A show of power, perhaps, followed by a bribe, and moving on to the personal, if necessary. Yes, that should be sufficient to gauge the true measure of this John Watson. And, ideally, send him packing.

Sherlock never spared John Watson a thought as he dashed down the stairs and out the door in search of the pink case. The killer must have dumped it somewhere close. The longer he held on to it the greater his risk of discovery. The killer must have driven the victim to the house so he need only consider alleys and roadways wide enough for a car. _Roadways? Really, Sherlock, the man is trying to discard a bulky object without being seen. Think, why don't you._ Sherlock shook Mycroft's condescending voice from his head and dove down the first alley to which he came searching for the right skip. Only an hour later, as he sat in a cab on his way back to Baker St. with his prize next to him, did he think of John. He wondered if the good doctor would have the sense to return back to the flat promptly. They had so much yet to do.

To say John felt out of place and slightly foolish as he shed the blue protective suit in what had been the first floor sitting room of the derelict house in Lauriston Gardens would have been an understatement. Then, there had been Sgt. Donovan's questions and her "advice" about Sherlock Holmes. Just what the devil was he doing out here searching for a cab at night in Brixton? It had already been a long day and his leg really hurt but he couldn't stop turning things over in his mind. Obviously, he shouldn't take the flat with Sherlock. The guy was a complete tosser and probably a madman. But, he was also brilliant, genuinely brilliant, and _interesting_. John felt an odd mix of trepidation, exasperation and excitement as he continued his limping cab quest. He felt awful for Jennifer Wilson and for her family and friends, he really did, but he, John Watson, had just done _something_. Someone had asked for _his_ assistance and _his_ opinion. He had just _done_ something for the first time in months. Maybe Sherlock wasn't always such a dick. As a doctor, John had lots of experience dealing with difficult people, after all. Besides, the flat was quite nice. The sight of an approaching cab roused him from his thoughts. Damn, he missed it. Limping on, John noticed yet another public phone was ringing. His curiosity piqued, he answered it.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Mycroft ended the call and closed the video feeds on his laptop before stepping out of the sleek black sedan. He hung his umbrella over his arm as he typed on his Blackberry. The click of his heels echoed as he walked over to "his mark" several yards away from where he had had the chair placed. He had chosen this particular location because of it's immense size and reverberant acoustics. He sent his assistant a single word inquiry.

_Impressions?_

**Remarkably calm and composed. Even more so than the Detective Inspector.**

_Elaborate._

**Thanked Edwin for opening the car door. Put on his seat belt before we left. Currently attempting to "chat me up".**

_Any signs of distress at all?_

**None whatsoever.**

_Estimated time of arrival?_

**_2 minutes._ **

Mycroft considered this information for a moment. Maybe this one would prove more interesting than anticipated. He returned his phone to his breast pocket before casually leaning on his umbrella, one foot cross over the other. It was time to see exactly what stuff Dr. John H. Watson was made of.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N - This chapter ended up being a lot of filler around ASiP. Sorry. A lot of people have suggested a Mycroft chapter but I've had such a hard time getting anything to coalesce in my brain. Or rather, I have too many fragments that are too short so this will be the first of 2 or 3 Mycroft chapters. As I have said before, I love all the Mycroft and John scenes in the show. Actually, if anything was missing for me in Series 3 it was that there really were none of these! That being said, for the life of me I could not come up with a believable new Mycroft & John scene that fit really early in the show. I mean how do you top their first meeting in the warehouse? That one scene set so much of the tone of who both John and Mycroft are. Since I couldn't think of anything new I decided to leach of the show. I tried to rotate POV from Mycroft, to Sherlock, to John, etc. I hope it worked.
> 
> Please, please, please leave a comment or review.
> 
> * Nicotiana rustica is the Latin botanical name for a type of tobacco used in making cigars, according to Wikipedia. Sherlock knows ash...
> 
> ++Philatelic = Regarding stamp collecting
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked.


	10. Arch Enemy

_**Arch Enemy** _

John stared at the telephone for a moment considering his options. _Get in the car,_ the disembodied voice had commanded. Oddly, John didn't feel frightened or intimidated, just curious. John had always had a bit of a sixth sense and could readily tell the difference between things that were just "a bit scary" and those that were "truly dangerous". This situation smacked of the former and not the later.

Standing just 5 foot 6 inches tall and currently weighing in at something less than ten and a half stone, John was hardly an imposing physical presence. No surprise there. What did surprise a lot of people was that John was not a man who was easily intimidated. In fact, he was almost impossible to get a reaction from, something that had irked his instructors mightily during army basic training. Most people seemed to assume that because John was not particularly intimidating that he must, therefore, be easily intimidated. But, John Hamish Watson was Harriet Maeve Watson's brother. He had learned long ago (like before kindergarten) that nothing unsettles those who seek to bully or harass more than simply not taking the bait. The nameless movie-villain voice would not have gone through all this theatre if he intended to hurt or kill John. First of all, why would anyone bother targeting him? And, second, why would they go through all the trouble with the phones and cameras. The cameras bit had been very clever, after all. No, this wasn't dangerous it was simply showing off. For some reason he thought of Sherlock blatantly showing off as he made those incredible deductions about a dead woman. John got into the car, fastened his seat belt and nodded to the beautiful, James Bond worthy woman sitting next to him.

_Hello ... what's your name then?_

/-/-/-/-/-/

_Have a seat, John._

John had exited the black sedan without betraying any reservation and quickly surveyed his new surroundings, some sort of large, industrial warehouse. The main work floor was empty except for a wildly out-of-place black leather and chrome chair. He ignored the offered chair and walked toward his mystery caller/captor/possible criminal-mastermind, a tall, impeccably dressed man with an umbrella. A brolly? Really? Although it was very inappropriate, John's first thought was that he had just been abducted by Mary Poppins' evil twin brother. Not exactly a menacing figure, how anti-climatic. He spoke his mind.

_You know, I've got a phone. It's very clever and all that but, ah, you could have just phoned me ... on my phone._

The other man answered using perfect, public school diction.

_When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes one learns to be discrete ..._

'Sherlock? Somehow Sherlock is messed up with this guy?' John thought quickly, then realized he wasn't surprised. The other man was still talking.

_... hence this place. The leg must be hurting you. Sit. Down._

Mycroft pitched the last two words as a command, like a school master who expected obedience. John's defiance was instantaneous.

_I don't want to sit down._

Mycroft studied the man in front of him for a beat considering his little speech, his tone, his posture, the unwavering eye contact.

_You don't seem very afraid._

Again, the defiant retort was immediate.

_You don't seem very frightening._

Mycroft noted that the composure and lack of fear appeared quite genuine. Combined with the initial impressions from his assistant he could only surmise that his small show of power had not been effective. Time for more direct intimidation. He tossed his head back and let out a condescending laugh.

_Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?_

He finished with an edge. There was no overt reaction so he pressed on directly in an accusatory tone.

_What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?_

Sherlock, again. John reminded himself that he obviously wasn't the target here. There was safety in that. Well, at least for him. Somewhat taken aback by the question, he opted for honesty,

_I don't ... have one. I barely know him. I met him ... yesterday._

Mycroft noticed John's confusion. Good. Time to push.

_Hmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Are we to expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?_

John could no longer contain his curiosity or his irritation,

_Who are you?_

_An interested party._

_Interested in Sherlock, why? I-I'm guessing you're not friends._

Mycroft paused briefly gauging the truth in his answer regarding his dear younger brother.

_You've met him. How many friends do you imaging he has?_

John raised his eye brows giving the mystery man the point on that one.

_I'm the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having._

_And what's that?_

_An enemy._

_An enemy?_

John was surprised by Mr. Poppin's open assertion. Who the hell was this guy?

_In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic._

The dead-panned retort rolled easily off John's tongue,

_Well, thank God you're above all that._

Mycroft was mildly affronted by the insolence of the comment and was preparing to counter with his next barb when John's attention was drawn to the text alert chime from his phone. The soldier casually fished in his pocket and read the message. Mycroft was becoming slightly miffed.

_I hope I'm not distracting you._

_Not, distracting me ... at all._

John considered the message for a moment longer before returning the phone to his pocket and returning his attention to his "host". Mycroft resumed his offensive.

_Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?_

John feigned looking circumspect before answering.

_I could be wrong, but I think that's none of your business._

Mycroft was ready to make his offer. He looked at John knowingly.

_It could be._

Another immediate reply.

_It reeaally couldn't._

This time John's response was pitched dangerously low. Mycroft was almost impressed, but back to business.

_If you do move into, um, two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street ..._

John forced his expression to remain neutral but he subconsciously took a step back. He felt exposed. This was getting to a bit too close.

_I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way._

John didn't know what he had been expecting but he certainly had not been expecting this turn. Was he being bribed? Set up for black mail? He asked as much.

_Why?_

_Because you're not a wealthy man._

John was starting to feel increasingly wary.

_In exchange for what?_

_Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to._

OK, this was getting truly bizarre. Apparently John had been hauled off the street for the sole purpose of being press-ganged into spying on someone he had just met. Did this sort of thing actually happen to people?

_Why?_

_I worry about him. Constantly._

John offered another dead-panned reply,

_That's nice of you._

Mycroft decided to let it pass, this was already taking too long,

_But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a difficult relationship._

John's phone chimed another text alert, and he, again, causally retrieved his phone to look at the incoming message. No doubt these texts were from Sherlock, Mycroft mused. Mycroft had seen John's phone records. In the 6 weeks since he had started his new phone plan, John had received a total of 21 texts from four sources, his sister, his therapist's office, someone named Murray, and his mobile service provider. Mycroft was somewhat puzzled as to why his brother was apparently latching on to this one.

John considered the text then offered Mycroft his answer,

_No._

_But I haven't mentioned a figure._

_Don't bother._

Mycroft chuckled in condescension again. Was this near-penniless man with few meaningful prospects really about to refuse him? Surely this was a show of sheer obstinance not integrity.

_Your very loyal, very quickly._

_No, I'm not. I'm just not interested._

Mycroft's air of false congeniality fell away completely and his face hardened. Time to give the good doctor a glimpse of what he was up against. Mycroft reached into his breast pocket for his notebook again.

_Trust issues, it says here._

John's eyes widened as they immediately locked on to the small leather-bound book. He quickly sought to re-establish his composure.

_What's that._

It came out weaker than John would have liked.

_Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes, of all people._

_Who says that I trust him?_ John tried to sound defiant.

_You don't seem the kind to make friends easily._

John rushed back in. Time to end this farce.

_Are we done?_

Mycroft looked positively predatory as he replied,

_You tell me?_

John met the powerful man's gaze straight on. He tilted his head to the side, a non-verbal response that spoke volumes. Then he simply turned and began to walk away. At that moment, he could not have cared if he had to limp across the entire city, he was done here.

Mycroft was mildly impressed. The last bit had been a highly personal attack yet John Watson's retreat was defiantly unhurried and steady. Interesting. Could it be? He needed to be certain.

_I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen._

John stopped. How the hell? He slumped slightly as he felt his curiosity and anger trump his resolve to leave. He shook his head tightly and turned back to face his nameless nemesis again. He spoke through clenched teeth,

_My what?_

Time to expose the true nature of our doctor-soldier's character, Mycroft thought.

_Show me?_

John regarded Umbrella Man for a long moment, then he straightened and raised his rock steady left hand. Mycroft approached and moved to grasp it. John reflexively pulled the hand away and stiffened. He issued a warning to cover his discomfort. Bad leg and shoulder or no, right now, he really could end this prick.

_Don't._

Mycroft gave John a knowing look. "Come now, Doctor," it said. John relented allowing the other man to examine his hand.

_Remarkable._

_What is?_

John pulled his hand back and returned it to his side. By second nature he fell into his military posture, head up, eyes straight ahead. His lips were a tight line and his jaw was clenched. Mycroft waltzed away turning his back as he expounded upon his deductions.

_Most people blunder around this city and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes you see the battlefield. You've seen it already. Haven't you?_

The elder Holmes gave John another knowing look. John bit out his tight-lipped question.

_What's wrong with my hand?_

_You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of you military service._

John struggled but managed to maintain his composure but could no longer contain his anger.

_Who the Hell are you?_

For the briefest moment, a look almost resembling empathy crossed Mycroft's face. He had just laid the doctor bare as intended but he had had to cut quite far to the bone to do it. He watched as John Watson quickly reestablished his control.

_How do you know that?_

The Umbrella Man continued sounding both arrogant and entirely nonplussed. However, his next words would come to reverberate within John.

_Fire her. She's got it the wrong way around. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady._

John glanced quickly down toward his hand before returning his eyes straight ahead. Mycroft finished his smug exposition.

_You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it ..._

He leaned in with a faux whisper that was anything but warm or welcoming.

_Welcome back._

The Umbrella Man then turned and walked, no, strolled away. John remained standing at something very close to attention. His phone dinged again.

_Time to choose a side, Dr. Watson._

Mycroft called without looking back. John gave the man one more glance. What the hell was that supposed to mean? The Bond woman approached him again.

_I'm to take you home._

John read the incoming text. It was from Sherlock, of course ( _Could be dangerous_ ) _,_ and then examined his hand. It was steady as a rock. Could the Umbrella Man be right? Did his problems stem from the tedium and lack of purpose he had felt since his return rather than his messed-up head? He smiled to himself slightly. Maybe. Maybe it was time to take a risk again.

_Address?_

John answered easily.

_Umm, Baker St. 221B Baker St._

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Once back in his car Mycroft immediately sent a text his assistant. He was almost certain of the response before it arrived.

_Where?_

_**Baker St.** _

Mycroft considered for a moment.

_Any evident impact?_

**_None whatsoever._ **

_Assemble a full report. Include complete service record, past relationships, NHS records (including full psychiatric), academic transcripts right down to his 11+ scores. By 9 a.m. tomorrow, if you please._

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_Several days later ..._

Mycroft sat back in his chair, his hands tented in front of his face considering the police report on the incident with Sherlock and the cabbie. In his statement to the Met, his brother had said that Jefferson Hope had admitted having a 'sponsor'. This was particularly interesting in light of recent rumblings about the emergence of a powerful central figure who had interests and influence in crimes across both the continent and the Isles. Could these serial suicides be connected to a larger web of crimes. The information was too sparse and too nebulous to be certain of anything.

After several minutes further contemplation about the events at the College, he glanced to the corner of his desk to the folder labeled _Watson, J.H_. He sighed. The balance of probability was that the doctor was the shooter. This was an undeniably worrisome development. Very, _very_ few people could have made that shot, especially through a closed window, without hitting his brother who must have been standing facing the cabbie. Not only that, but the good doctor was then able to conceal his involvement from the police. Most troubling, however, was that Watson appeared completely unfazed by his actions. Mycroft had seen the doctor and Sherlock as they left the crime scene joking and chatting amicably less than an hour after Watson had killed a man. He had no doubt that his brother had deduced much about Watson's true nature, why else would he even bother with him, but Mycroft wondered whether Sherlock really appreciated the potentially dangerous complexity that was John Watson. Perhaps it was time to call on his dear, little brother at his new flat and bring him a house warming gift. Mycroft put John's file in his briefcase.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The fact that Sherlock had anticipated his brother's visit did not make the event any less unpleasant. John had left over an hour ago, off out with Stamford or maybe he was shopping or perhaps he'd gone to the library. Sherlock hadn't actually bothered listening. He knew Mycroft would visit before their parents return from their winter junket to Marrakech so today was a good bet. His brother entered the flat and wordlessly circled the sitting room once before settling (with a hint of disdain) in the red stuffed chair that John seemed to favor. Sherlock placed his violin and bow back in its case and turned toward his elder brother. Mycroft casually reached into his brief case and removed John's file. Holding it before him in two hand, he sat back in the chair and primly crossed his legs.

"Why?" he asked like a school master. Sherlock stiffened, immediately on the defensive.

"Why? To pay the rent, of course. As you were so keen to point out, my current stipend is only marginally sufficient for renting in Central London. I require a flatmate."

"So you choose a financially strapped, unemployed, war veteran. Really, Sherlock."

"John is a doctor ..."

"Who is unlikely to ever practise surgery again. As always, practical considerations, such as your chosen ... _flatmate's,"_ Mycroft spat the word with undisguised scorn, "solvency, played no part in your decision-making process. Typical. How much do you know?"

"What's it to you?" Sherlock replied petulantly? Mycroft sighed and raised his eyebrows.

"Don't be tiresome, dear brother, it was a simple question," he chastised.

"John Watson is an army doctor who was invalided home from Afghanistan late in the summer or early autumn. He is, or was, a career soldier, quite a good one, I'd wager. He has no immediate family, save one alcoholic sister, from whom he's estranged, and has no close friends, at least not in London. His accent and career path suggest a lower middle class or working class upbringing, likely in a broken home given his sister's alcoholism and his own guarded nature I suspect he was a scholarship case from a young age and attended a reputable grammar school where he excelled at rugby, despite his size, and earned A-levels in history, literature, anatomy and physiology and probably biology. As for his solvency, while not wealthy, John is fiscally responsible and lives within his means, which are currently limited by the pittance your _Government_ sees fit to offer as compensation for his injury in service to Queen and Country."

"Nothing more?"

Mycroft's voice was that of a weary school master sorely disappointed by his charge. In truth, Sherlock had thought of a lot more. He'd thought of the instantaneous and ineffable connection he felt toward John, his desire to earn the man's praise, and his interest in unraveling the mystery of this steel-cored enigma wrapped in a fuzzy jumper. He would never admit such sentiment to his brother, however. Instead, he countered his with a flippant retort,

"He doesn't take sugar in his coffee, he supports some unpopular football team, New-something, and I believe his favorite color is blue. Oh, and he turned _you_ down flat. That's was this is really all about, isn't it?" Mycroft offered no reaction to the jibe but continued on, unperturbed.

"Maths," he said examining his manicured fingernails.

"What?" Sherlock asked confused.

"His last A-level was in maths not biology. As always, your deductions are correct but superficial. You've missed the thing of greatest import."

"And, what, pray tell, dear brother, might that be?" Sherlock asked in a voice dripping with insolent sarcasm.

"John Watson is a dangerous man." The elder Holmes leaned across the space between the two chairs and placed John's file on the small table next to Sherlock's chair. Sherlock glared at his brother. He could not deny the truth, but agreeing seemed like a betrayal, somehow. Nonetheless, this statement was obvious and could not, therefore, be Mycroft's point. He rolled his eyes and faked a sniff of boredom in reply while studiously ignoring the folder.

"His army training, in combination with his protective nature, has provided him with a certain, lethal skill set. Something Messr. Hope learned first hand." Mycroft paused giving his brother a look of knowing condescension as if to say, _'Yes, little brother, of course I know.'_ Sherlock resumed his glare.

"Yet, he is principled and courageous, possessing inordinate amounts of both loyalty and integrity," Mycroft expounded professorially. Sherlock sighed in a show of impatience and draped both arms along the armrests of his chair.

"I thought you came to bury him not to praise him. Your point, Mycroft?" Mycroft looked at his brother seriously for a beat before he continued.

"He's ... damaged," he said flatly. Sherlock sat straighter in his chair, a wary, slightly puzzled look on his face. "and, therefore, vulnerable, thus ultimately a liability." Mycroft peered down his nose at his younger brother.

"While you might gain a great deal from an association with John Watson, I fear you have little, if anything, to offer in return, and the man is in need." Mycroft pointed to the file and nodded, again inviting Sherlock to read at it. Sherlock looked at the closed file and then back at his brother his cautious expression unchanged.

"Your lifestyle does offer a certain level of distraction but little substance. What happens to the good doctor he realizes that fact. Or, more likely, when you simply grow bored with this little experiment?" Mycroft waved a dismissive hand to encompass the flat. Sherlock's face fell in the wake of his always smarter brother's words.

"Think it over," Mycroft said, nodding once more at the file. He rose, straightening his waistcoat, and retrieved his umbrella and case. He then began moving toward the door following the same wide arc he used when entering. He had descended the top four stairs when he heard his brother call after him.

"Mycroft!"

He turned. Sherlock was standing on the landing John Watson's file in his hand. Perhaps, at long last, a thank you? Unlikely. Sherlock descended two stairs. He had thought it over. He'd thought of a cab ride to Brixton, of a roof top chase, of shared laughs, of quite acceptance and praise, of a miraculous shot out of the blue, of Chinese food and oddly companionable silences. Glaring down Sherlock thrust the folder into his brother's chest almost unbalancing him.

"You forgot something, dear brother," he spat, cold fire burning again in his translucent eyes.

Mycroft grasped the file and straightened, his gaze shrewdly calculating as always.

"Unwise, dear brother," he replied before continuing down the stairs.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

_The next day ..._

John smiled as he sat on his bed holding his old cane out in front of himself. It was Tuesday and he had just cancelled his weekly appointment with Ella. _Your therapist thinks it's post traumatic stress disorder._ He rubbed his right leg just above the knee, no pain. _Fire her._ The truth was, he felt good. Really, pretty, bloody, good. He'd had only the one bad nightmare on Saturday and yesterday morning he had gone for a run. For the first time since Before he had gone for a run. He had been slow and only gone 3 miles but it had felt good. Normal, even. Granted, Sherlock was hardly normal. He was completely mad and a total nutter, and his brother, Mycroft, Jesus! But Mrs. Hudson was an absolute gem and even Lestrade seemed like a good bloke. He was going to tea at Mike and Beth's next Sunday. Things were good here. His smile faded as the familiar pins-and-needles-like sensation spread down his wrist, though his left palm and out through his fingers. He clenched his fist tight then stretched his hand out wide. He sighed wishing it was _all_ just in his head. John looked back at the cane. A win was a win. He tossed the cane up in the air and caught it easily. He stood up and put the hateful thing in the back of his wardrobe. One step at a time.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry this took so long. It took me forever to find an angle (Mycroft was fighting me, again) and I'm still not sure if it really works. Be gentle.
> 
> All that wonderful dialog in italics that you recognize was penned by Mr. Moffatt and is obviously not mine Neither is any of the description of the setting. Nothing nasty intended there. Just entertaining myself and, hopefully, maybe a few other people. Don't own, as usual.
> 
> Not beta'd or officially Brit-picked but many thanks to MyScarlettLady for her Brit-picking suggestions!
> 
> Any and all comments, corrections, suggestion or reviews are eagerly sought. Thanks for reading.


	11. The Therapist

_**A/N**_ – _In his session with Ella, italics represent John's thoughts and memories. None of these are voiced out loud. John doesn't actually say a whole lot, actually. Please read the end of the chapter for an important note about this chapter._

John looked at his discharge orders yet again. He had known officially for almost three weeks and unofficially for much longer that he was being declared unfit for duty and would be discharged on 30 November. Retirement the colonel had called it, as he shook John's hand, like it was a good thing. Honourable discharge (medical causes) was what the piece of paper said. John's chest tightened every time he read it. His military career was over. They hadn't even given him the option (not that he wanted it) of a clinical position or even an administrative post. It was all just ... over. John lay the discharge face down before continuing on to the next items in his separation packet, a voucher for MOD subsidized housing and a list of landlords in greater London who supposedly accepted the vouchers. He had circled the sixteenth name on the second page, Kishore Maddipoti. All thirty-three previous names on the list had been duly called and struck off. John was to meet with Mr. Maddipoti today at 11 a.m. and should be prepared to pay the first week's rent plus security deposit in cash. John had googled the address. The building was on the edge of a dodgy neighbourhood and he strongly suspected the "one bedroom efficiency" would be little more than a bedsit. And all for the reduced rate of £190 a week, in advance, utilities and internet not included.

Today was December 2nd. Harry had dutifully, if somewhat grudgingly, offered to collected John from the outpatient housing near Queen's Hospital in Brighton, even saying he could stay at her place in Camden. John had declined assuring her that his transportation and housing were already set. Instead, he had parted with the £24.70, plus cab fare, and took the train from Brighton to Victoria Station and got a room in a budget tourist hotel. Less than two days into "retirement" and he was already out two hundred quid. At least the room came with unlimited local phone calls. He took the smart phone Harry had given him out of his back pocket. She had called and sent him several texts but he had yet to make a single call on it. Having to accept the phone was bad enough, he would not have his calls going onto Harry's bill. He would get himself some sort of mobile plan this week. Rejoin the 21st century. He had been deployed to Afghanistan for most of the last three and a half years. While there he had relied on e-mail. He wasn't even sure where his trusty old flip phone was? Probably it was in one of boxes he had stored at Harry's. John turned the new phone over in his hand and shook his head. _Clara_. She, much more so than Harry, had been his lifeline during those early weeks at Queen's. She was the one who had always seemed to be there when he woke, the one who had sat with him hours when he could barely move or talk or think straight. Harry had usually headed to the loo or out for a cigarette after about ten minutes in the presence of her gravely ill brother. He thought about Clara's last awkward visit to Brighton*, on the day after the colonel had informed him of his imminent retirement, and wondered whether he'd ever see her again. His sister was such an idiot.

John placed the housing list aside and turned to the next item in the package, a sheaf of pages explaining his _sliding-scale, early-separation pension with partial (50%) disability compensation_. John did not need his A-level in maths to know that his _age-graduated annuity_ alone would not be enough to live on, especially in London. He scanned his disability designation, less than fifty percent, and thought of the ludicrous list of disability descriptions in that category. Designations to which he had assigned other wounded soldiers without really appreciating the legal and financial connotations. _Loss of vision in one eye where uncorrected sight in other eye is at least 20/100; loss of thumb and/or 2 or more digits on the same hand; permanent reduction in range of motion of one limb involving whole limb or multiple joints in same or different limb; loss of single hand/arm or foot/leg below elbow or knee, such that said elbow or knee was functional._ John's mind flashed to Varick and the IED. He felt the Afghan summer heat and smelled the diesel smoke and heard the three shots†... He all but jumped out of his chair. Shoving the financial statement aside, he staggered until he got his cane under him, a sharp pain shooting through his right leg. He stood in place panting for a few seconds while he regained his control, then he grabbed his coat and headed for the door. He could walk, damn it, and he bloody well would walk. Everyday. He wasn't a cripple, forty-nine percent or otherwise, which was more than Varick could say. Several papers fluttered off the desk as John forcefully swung the door closed behind him. One landed face up on the chair. It was a referral to Dr. Ella Thompson, MBPsS, for psychological services.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Ella Thompson was running late. She had been running late all day. Cursed traffic. She had a new patient at 2 p.m. and usually liked to have at least a half an hour before the first meeting to prepare but, as it was, she was lucky to have half that. She flipped open the folder, another returning veteran. Nearly ten percent of her patients over the last five years were returning soldiers. Although she appreciated the referrals and her success rate was quite good, she always had the same sinking, inadequate feeling upon meeting a new one. Their struggles were often so great and their experiences genuinely horrific. Remembering a favorite saying of her old clinical psych professor, _'one does not need to have had a heart attack to be a cardiologist', s_ he collected her thoughts and began reviewing the file.

This one was different. Most of her ex-military patients were returning enlisted personnel in their early to mid-twenties. This one was older, an officer, a career soldier, and a doctor. A what? Ella reread that bit. A trauma surgeon, wounded by sniper fire while treating casualties from an IED in a forward area. Ella let out a slow breath while she digested this. Then she flipped forward in the file to see the extent of his injuries and his medical outcomes. The man had certainly had a rough go of it. She read through the preliminary evaluation from the staff psychologist at the hospital, _moderate to severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and through persistent somatic complaints, profoundly dissociated and resistant to therapy yet exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others_. Interesting. In most cases dissociation was a global shut down. The individual unplugged from themselves and from those around them. Maybe his hyper-awareness was because of his medical ... She started slightly at the sound of the intercom interrupting her thoughts and glanced at her watch, 1:59 p.m. Apparently her new patient was also prompt.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John scanned the office as he entered. The room was comfortably furnished, had large windows, tasteful wall hangings and was perfectly round. He enjoyed the novelty of that for a moment before turning his attention to Dr. Ella Thompson. His therapist, a tall attractive black woman, was walking toward him with her hand outstretched.

"Hello, Doctor Watson, I'm Ella Thompson, a pleasure to meet you," she said with cordial professionalism.

John awkwardly shuffled his cane to shake her hand and issued a quiet reply, "John."

Ella smiled reassuringly as she continued. She knew her patients were often ill-at-ease during the first appointment.

"OK, John. Please call me Ella. Have a seat," she indicated the two chairs behind her. John moved to the chair nearest the door but stood next to it until Ella sat in the chair opposite.

Ella's first though upon seeing John Watson was that she had never met anyone, in or out of uniform, who was so obviously a soldier. He was a bit on the short side, probably not quite as tall as her, but everything about him, his hair cut, his posture, his build, the expression set on his face, absolutely screamed military.

"Thank you," she said as she sat, acknowledging his courtesy. She noticed that after he sat he made direct eye contact. Unlike most of her new patients, he did not seem nervous or anxious. His eyes, which were a rather remarkable dark blue, were set like stone and his face was a neutral, expressionless mask. In fact, he seemed almost defiant. No, that wasn't quite right, or at least not all of it. Determined, that was it. This was difficult for him but he was determined to meet it head on.

"So, John, why are you here?" she opened clasping her hands in front of her. John blinked and looked puzzled.

"I have to. I got shot. It's required," he answered. Ella smiled at the honest, no-nonsense answer. She also noted that John did not seem to have difficulty acknowledging his injury. That was hopeful.

"I'm sorry, let me be more specific. What would you like to address during these sessions?"

He took a breath as if to speak but held it. His jaw clamped tight as he let the breath back out as if to purposely keep any errant words from escaping. He glanced toward the window for a moment. His mind was suddenly racing.

_What did he want? The evaluation was mandatory for all wounded veterans, a minimum of 2 to 4 sessions usually, although there was no upper limit. His original inclination had been to suffer through the required sessions and be done with it. However, while John Watson certainly had a surfeit of pride, he had never been one to fool himself. Things were not going well. How many times had he earnestly recommended to his patients that they make full use of the psychological services?_

He squared his shoulders and took another breath. This time he spoke,

"My leg hurts."

The session progressed slowly. John appeared to be trying but was both stoic and reticent by nature. Ella had to work for each and every response. She tried to get him to expand more on his leg pain, its severity and triggers. She asked if he had any other somatic complaints and had waited through nearly two minutes of silence before he glanced at his left hand and nodded once. She sensed that for each word he spoke whole paragraphs went unsaid. Ella knew implicitly that he was being truthful, but she also knew that each answer he revealed seemed to cost him. She made note of it, _apparent deep-seated trust issues._

"You attach very negative connotations to therapy, don't you?" she stated bluntly after several more minutes. That got his attention. John straightened, his ear tips flushed red and he cleared his throat.

"No, um, no. It's just not something I ... it's just not how I was raised." He sat back into the chair and resumed idly traced the pattern on the arm of the the chair with his finger.

"OK, fair enough. Let's back up and talk about that, then. Where are your roots?" John looked slightly confused by the sudden change of tack.

"You're not originally from London, are you?" Ella clarified.

"No, I, um, grew up in Essex, um, outside Chelsea actually."

"Any attachments there? Family? Childhood memories?"

_John thought of a picture he had squirreled away in his box. The picture was of Harry and him on a beach in Spain from the only summer holiday the Watson family ever took._ _John remembered his 11 year-old self being happy on that once-in-a-life-time visit to Spain. He and Harry, removed from their normal surroundings, had actually got on for the entire fortnight. Playing on the warm, sun-drenched beach. Exploring nearby villages on bike all by themselves. Successfully ordering ice cream or Coca Cola although neither of them spoke a word of Spanish. It was fun and John had taken it as a sign that everything was going to be OK, that his family would be normal from now on and that the fighting and trouble were all in the past. But, that wonderful holiday turned out to be just another lie. School had barely begun (he'd just started at the King Edward Grammar School, Dad was so proud) when the fighting started again. Mum was drinking, that much John knew, but the rest he hadn't understood at the time. Dad moved out shortly after Christmas and by the time summer holidays came around again Rupert had moved in. By the next Christmas John had learned many things, how to get himself off to school, how to get his own food, how to wash his own clothes, how to block out the chaos and concentrate on his homework, how to duck and how not to cry. Harry, who never did know when to shut up, was Rupert's favorite target but sometimes John couldn't be quiet enough. He never told anyone, though, not Miss Frazer, his favorite teacher, not Mr. Beacham, his rugby coach, not even his Dad. He didn't want to get Mum in trouble. And no one had noticed. Johnny Watson was always quiet. Never a trouble maker. His grades were good, not outstanding, but a boy with his background couldn't be expected to make top marks. Nobody noticed until John ended up in hospital with a concussion, and a broken arm. He and Harry had gone to live with their Dad, Rupert had gone to prison for 6 months, and Mum had cried that she was so sorry. John loved her, he really did, but never trusted her again._

"No. I, ah, haven't been back since I left secondary school," John said without inflection.

"And what about your parents? How is your relationship with your father?" Ella looked up from her notes.

_John knew his dad was a good man. He had worked long hours in a factory job that he hated to support his family. In return, he had had high expectations for his children. There was no room for excuses in the Watson family. That both John and Harry would go to uni was always assumed, a given in his Dad's mind. He made sure John worked hard in school, constantly reminding him that he needed better grades if he was going to get a scholarship. Dad had also encouraged John to play sports, especially rugby, but also told him there was no point in playing unless he was good. Then, when John was 15, Dad got sick. John studied harder and made first fifteen in rugby and Dad went into remission. John was approaching 6th form and Dad encouraged him to go for as many A-levels as he could so John did. Then Dad relapsed so John studied even more, Dad got sicker and John played even harder, 2nd team league all-star. Then Dad had started talking to John about the army. The army could help him pay for uni. If he graduated from university, he would be an officer. Then John planned one beyond Dad. He wouldn't just go to uni, he'd go to medical school. Dad had liked that._

_John's rugby team had made the tournament later that year. Dad came out to the pitch for the big game bundled in his winter coat even though the day was mild. Mr. Beacham hadn't seen Mr. Watson at any games for quite a while. He was shocked by the sight of the man. In fact most of the boys were staring at Watson's dad. Mr. Beacham didn't have to tell them what to do. John played every minute, he carried the ball more than any other player and scored more points than he ever had but the boys on the other side were bigger and more experienced. The team lost. John stayed on the pitch after all the other boys had left. He stood stone faced next to the frail old man who was his dad. Dad was dying and nothing 16 year-old John could do would stop that. He died on a Tuesday one week after John's seventeenth birthday. He had been just 37 years old._

"He's dead," John said flatly. Ella raise her eyebrows inquiring.

"Died when I was 17. Cancer," John explained expression unchanged.

"Oh, I see. And your mother?" John looked off to the side again and was quiet for a beat before answering.

_John had loved his mum. When he was young she read him stories using all sorts of funny voices. She used to take Harry and him to the beach. She had taught them how to swim and how to ride a bike, let them help with the baking in the kitchen and always brought them to the fair each autumn. John's mum had tried her best. She really had but she was young and had never had the chance to learn who she was before she became pregnant at 17, was forced to marry and then became the mother of twins at 18. She had loved her children, and even her husband, at one time, but was ill-equipped to deal with the tedium and isolation that teenage parenthood and marriage brought, especially in the face of her father's crushing disapproval. At first, she only drank to help get herself through the bad days, then she drank to get though every day. Harry and Dad used to get angry when she was drunk. John had just resented it. Then, when he was twelve, everything came apart and Rupert happened._

_After his dad's death, John moved back to live with his mum until the end of the school year. Two weeks after school ended John left for basic training. The army would be sending him to Bart's in the fall, just as he and Dad had planned. He never lived in his mum's house again._

_As John got older he gained more and more empathy for his mum. During his time at Bart's he found himself thinking things like mum never got to go to uni, and at my age (21) Mum couldn't go on all-night pub crawls she had 3-year-old twins at home, and so on. He had tried to visit regularly, to accept the past and move on, to forgive, but he never really managed it. She had let Rupert into their house. And, then, in the end, she had gotten in the car with Steven (her latest boyfriend) that night. John had been deployed to a remote area in Sierra Leone at the time. It had taken two days for the news to reach him and three more days for him to get home, arriving in London just hours before the funeral (Harry had been furious with him). The terrible irony was that while Steven's blood alcohol had been nearly three times over the limit, Mum had be completely sober._

"Died in a car crash, six years ago," he said rotely, his voice remaining even and flat. Ella frowned a bit in sympathy. "My condolences," she said before making another note.

"Siblings?" she prompted.

"Just my sister, she lives up in Camden." Ella nodded.

"Are you close? Is she why you decided to come to London after your discharge?"

_Harry Watson was a loud and brash as John was reserved and guarded. She demanded attention whenever she walked into a room and often behaved badly if she didn't get it. One would have thought, given their difficult home life, that Harry and John would have been close, but that was not the case. They were allies of necessity and little more. To deal with their tumultuous childhood and her own struggles with her sexuality, Harry had adopted and perfected a wild-child persona. Harry did whatever Harry pleased and the world be damned. After rebelling her way through the local comprehensive, she breezed through university despite her crazy life style, then moved on to make a splash in the corporate world. All the while John had dutifully worked his way through Bart's and spent his summers drilling with the army. Always the life of the party, Harry had lived the London club scene to the utmost, often binge drinking entire weekends away. John had worried about her, of course he had, but their relationship was such that she never would have listened so he never bothered to say anything. Beside, he resented her drinking even more than he resented their mum's._

_But then, after years of partying, after Jane and Meaghan and Francis and CeeCee and Rita and Patricia (or was it Patricia then Rita?), Harriet had somehow found Clara. Clara, who was clever and accomplished and pretty and patient and cheeky and strong. John had immediately liked her and had also immediately been jealous. Not in a romantic sense, he had never thought of Clara that way. He was jealous because Harry ... of all people ... flighty, caustic, difficult drunkard, Harry ... had found someone wonderful to love who loved her right back. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never had a relationship that came anywhere close, and he had tried! He had enough trouble just making friends. Jealousy aside, John had always known that his sister didn't deserve Clara and that one day she would hurt her. That day had come and gone while he was in hospital, and he had been unaware. He thought about Clara's last visit and of the phone in his pocket. He was done with Harry for the moment._

"No." John said firmly. Thinking better of it, he tried to soften his response.

"It's just, um, I liked London while I was at Bart's. Thought I could look for a position here ... ah, I mean, eventually." John looked at his shoes and balled his left hand into a tight fist.

"How about other family? Friends?" Ella asked lightly already surmising his response.

"Ah, not really. None in the city, anyway. Most of my regiment is still deployed,"

"So most of your friends are also soldiers?" Ella had clasped her hands in front of her again. She was looking at him awaiting a response. John return her gaze head on.

_He had been a soldier his entire adult life. Of course his friends were soldiers! He thought of kind Bill Murray and fun-loving Jasmine Singh, of quirky Artie Doyle_ _and finally of fearless and fearsome James Sholto. He remembered having had breakfast with Sholto that morning as was their custom, a last moment of normalcy. Little had either of them known what the day would bring._

"Um, yeah," was what he said. Ella nodded appraisingly before speaking,

"John, I'm not prying aimlessly here. It's important that we identify your available support system. Feelings of isolation are very common among returning veterans, especially those who have seen combat. Many try to translate their war experiences into their new life but can't so they withdraw. It can be a devastatingly lonely period. The most import step in making a successful transition to civilian life is the renewing or developing of connections. Connections to family, to significant others, to friends and to the community at large, that can include employment, as well." Ella noticed that John looked away on the word employment again balling his left hand into a tight fist.

"Eventually," she tacked on gently. He gave her a thin approximation of a smile and she continued. "It takes effort, all the more so in your case, because you've relatively few local connections to start." She paused to gauge his reaction but he gave none. He still wore the same flat, dissociated mask.

"Another important step in the transition is the establishment of new daily patterns and routines. As you well know, military life is replete with regimentation. While many soldiers like to complain about it, most actually find some degree of comfort in the routine and miss it when it is suddenly removed." John gave a single, tight nod in agreement. He, himself, missed everything about being a soldier.

"You mentioned before that you've been making an effort to walk regularly, to strengthen your leg."

John tensed at her mention of his leg but she moved off the subject without judgment or even a pause.

"I would suggest that you not only continue with that but also create other routines and scheduled activities. These can be either physical or intellectual pursuits. For example, journal writing has proven therapeutic benefits. Setting aside time each day to write provides many people with a meaningful way to work through their difficult thoughts." John was far too polite to roll his eyes at this recommendation but he looked highly skeptical nonetheless.

"And since you also need to broaden your base of connections, I think you should try using a more public format. A blog, for example." John's eyes widened. His first overt reaction since walking through the door.

"Sorry, a what?" he spluttered. Ella smiled warmly.

"A blog. There are any number of websites which you can use. Start by simply keeping a record of things that happen to you." Ella closed her notes and stood up signaling the end of the session. "Let's plan on meeting again next Tuesday. Cynthia can schedule it." John stood, nodding, and began moving toward the door. He stopped halfway, pivoting awkwardly on his cane.

"Seriously? You want me to keep a ... a blog?" he questioned, hoping against hope that he'd somehow got it wrong.

"Yes, I think you will find it very beneficial." Ella answered earnestly. John nodded vaguely and left the office.

_/-/-/-/-/-/_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sincerest apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been busy and this took forever to take form and then it took on a life of its own! As I crossed 10,000 words last night and was still on the third session and struggling to wrap it up I decided that the "chapter" had really become its own story. So, this chapter is just the first of my new multi-chapter story, "Therapy Can Be Very Helpful", which will kind of be a prequel to this story.
> 
> All the gobbledygook about John's pension and disability designation is totally made up. I'm sure the British Army treats its veteran's well. It was inspired by reading my company's disability insurance policy at my first job. The pamphlet literally went on for pages and pages about how much you got for an arm versus a hand versus multiple limbs. And of course, double indemnity for accidental death on company time. No kidding.
> 
> * † Although not necessary to follow this chapter, or the new story, you may want to read my stories Twelve Minutes, Sensitivity Training, Meeting Clara and Permission Denied to get a fuller picture of my head canon on John's injury and his relations with Harry and Clara.
> 
> I borrowed Artie Doyle from one of my favorite fics, An Innocent Man, by Fang's Fawn. You should go read it right now. Then send a review (a nice one, of course) to pester the author for more chapters, even though she updates MUCH more regularly than I do, because I can't wait ;-)


	12. The Improbable One

The man thought of himself as a detective. That wasn't his official job description but he knew that he was a competent, even talented, professional. The work, making a crime scene release its silent story and providing the necessary evidence to see that justice was served, was his calling and his passion. This evening he walked slowly around the woman's body. She was in her thirties, he guessed, married and was dressed in pink from head to toe. She was attractive and obviously took great care in her appearance. That was why it was so telling that she had scratched a word into the wood floor destroying her once manicured finger nails. That was a desperate act. _Rache_. Of course, he had immediately recognized it as the German word for revenge. He had always been rather good with languages. But how and why had a pretty, blond, German woman come to Lauriston Gardens to become the fourth of the "serial suicides"? Other than the body, the upstairs room in the dilapidated old building was empty, bare except for a dust-covered rocking horse in the corner. So intense and complete was his concentration as he observed the scene that he started at the sound of his D.I.'s gravelly voice behind him.

"Got anything?" Lestrade inquired.

"Not much," he answered truthful. "Like the others, she obviously doesn't belong here but other than that we'll need to ..." Anderson trailed off. Lestrade was fumbling for his phone.

"You're not going to call him are you?" Anderson asked hesitantly. "Because we can handle this. We can definitely handle it."* Lestrade ignored him and hit 1 on his speed dial. The D.I. sighed in aggravation when the call went directly to voice mail.

"OK, listen, I'll be back shortly. Keep me informed of everything you find. Don't over look anything. Right." Lestrade retraced his steps down stairs while the forensics specialist sullenly watched him go.

"Donovan," the D.I. called out as he shed his blue suit. Sally popped her head around the corner, brushing back her dark curly hair. Anderson did love Sally's hair. "I've got to go. Manage scene access until I get back," Donovan looked cross. He knew that _she_ knew that there was only one reason why Lestrade would leave a scene.

"Yes, sir." she said curtly before stalking back through the door..

/-/-/-/-/-/

Lestrade returned almost an hour later. Holmes was less than 10 minutes behind. As Anderson descended the stairs he sincerely wished that he and the Detective could exchange information in a collegial fashion but knew from experience that would not be the case. In fact, after the Hinckley double homicide debacle, he had made it clear to Lestrade and the other D.I.'s that he would no longer voluntarily work with the brilliant yet puerile man. He had barely stepped outside tonight when Holmes started.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock was sneering at him but he needed to remain professional.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" He folded his arms in a show of authority. It was then that he noticed the short bloke with a cane. Who the hell was he? He couldn't be with Sherlock, could he? Anderson's attention was immediately drawn back to the Detective himself.

"Quite clear. And is you wife away for long?" He asked. How on Earth could he have deduced that? Now Anderson was annoyed.

"Don't pretend you worked that out someone told you," he snapped.

"Your deodorant told me," the Detective snapped back. Anderson knew that he was about to be sucked into one of Holmes's deductive traps but he couldn't help himself. Surely, he was a masochist.

"My _deodorant_?" he said.

"It's for _men,_ " the Detective replied glibly.

"Of course, it's for men. I'm wearing it!" he heard himself exclaim, exasperated.

"So is Sergeant Donovan." Holmes said smoothly as he made to move past him.

"I don't know what you're implying..." he said defensively.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally just came over for a nice little chat and happened to stay over. And scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees." Holmes turned and entered the building.

How, _how_ , how? How could he know? _How_? Damn him and his blasted, super-human smugness. Anderson looked helplessly at Sally who was, understandably, mortified. Then he noticed that short bloke again. He had quickly checked Sally's knees before following Holmes in to the house. Who was he and what was he doing here?

Anderson took a moment on the pavement to talk Sally down (or rather, to get his ears thoroughly blistered by her) before returning up stairs. He needed to be sure his findings were heard. The Detective just was reporting to Lestrade as he gained the landing. _Not much_ , he'd said. Had he come up empty as well? Wow. Anderson leaned casually against the door jam, emboldened, and began to theorize.

"She's German," he said, confidently. "Rache, German for revenge. She could be trying to tell us something ..." It was obvious there was something important in this message. The Detective never looked up. He crossed the room in three long steps whilst fiddling with his phone.

"Yes, thank you for your input," he had said flatly then he had slammed the door closed.

The rude dismissal stung. It really stung. Anderson stared at the closed door for a long moment sublimating his anger. The man was absolutely impossible. Every time, _every time,_ he tried to collaborate in the spirit of professional cooperation Holmes behaved like a pompous, arrogant arse, showing off for Lestrade as if he were the only one at the scene with any deductive ability. And Lestrade ate it up! He may not be possessed of the same gifts as the Detective but that did not make him unskilled. How dare Holmes presume that he had nothing to offer. Anderson had almost convinced himself to re-open the door when Toft called up the stairs with a question regarding the scene photography. Anderson straightened, collecting himself, and descended the stairs to consult with _his_ officer. He was the _lead_ forensics scientist on this case, after all.

"Anderson, keep everyone out," Lestrade had called down not two minutes later as if nothing untoward were happening. The D.I. was patently breaking every rule in the book by letting Holmes in there. Not to mention the other guy. Toft gave him a look out of the the corner of his eye gauging his reaction. Peeved, Anderson jammed a finger at the scene processing checklist in Toft's hand. Just five minutes later Holmes was tearing down the stairs talking nonsense about suitcases, mistakes and pink. Obviously he was on to something brilliant, as usual, but what was yet unknown. Anderson finished with Toft then noted, with grim satisfaction, that Holmes had abandoned the short bloke, who looked utterly confused and out of place, at the top of the stairs without a second thought.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Two hours later, the scene processing complete, Anderson was riding with Lestrade and Sally back to the Yard. He was still stewing over Holmes's treatment of him. Didn't the Detective realize that _justice_ would be better served if they worked as allies rather than adversaries? Sally was talking to Lestrade about the case, he really wasn't paying much attention.

"So what exactly did the Freak's 'colleague' do, then?" Sally asked and Anderson straightened in the rear seat. _Colleague_? _Hardly._ Lestrade quickly glance away from the road toward Donovan and then back.

"He didn't really call him a 'colleague', did he?" the D.I. asked, incredulous. Donovan smirked and nodded.

"Yup, that's what he called him 'his _colleague_ '." Lestrade glanced away from the road toward Donovan and back again, shaking his head.

"Really? _He_ called him that?" he smiled. "Wouldn't even tell me his name, just dragged him upstairs."

"Did he even do anything? Looked a bit deer-in-headlights, if you ask me," Anderson said dismissively. Lestrade screwed up his face considering,

"Not so sure about that. He's a doctor of some sort. Gave the same cause of death as our lot did." Anderson snorted. So he could tell the cause on death for a simple poisoning. Big deal.

"But that's not the half of it," Lestrade was continuing.

"What d'you mean?" Sally asked.

"So Sherlock was off doing his _thing_ ," Lestrade fluttered a hand in the air before returning it to the steering wheel, "when the doctor bloke interrupts him to ask a question." Sally snorted a laugh.

"No, really, he did," Lestrade continued. "Didn't know any better, did he? But get this. Instead of ripping the poor sod's head off, I mean, yeah, he insulted him but nothing like he might have done, Sherlock _answered_ him and _explained_ everything. Bloody useful, actually. I'd missed about half of what was said the first time 'round. Three times he interrupted."

Sally was staring gape mouthed at her boss,

" _Freak_ did that?" she asked disbelieving. Oh, Jesus, not Sally, too.

"Still ditched the sod, cane and all, didn't he," Anderson muttered darkly. Colleague, indeed. Sally sent him a bewildered _what's your problem_ look over her shoulder.

Lestrade and Sally resumed their conversation about fact checking and press releases while Anderson slouched back in his seat. Several minutes later he spoke,

"You know, if there _is_ a suitcase, he's going to find it. May have done already." he said petulantly to the back of their heads.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next time Anderson saw John Watson was later the same evening during the "drugs bust" at Holmes's new flat (Anderson was secretly very pleased the Detective had moved from that tip of a place on Montague Street). He still didn't know the short guy's name but the man certainly was naive. Did he _really_ not know about Holmes's history with drugs? But it was Anderson who was soon gobsmacked when Sherlock turned to the man and asked _his_ _opinion,_ and then appeared to _listen to him_. He was even more astounded when the guy dared to snap at Sherlock over his deductive rant about Rachel not being a name.

"Then, what is it!" he had demanded. Holmes had actually paused and answered him, just like Lestrade had said. Holmes even called him, quite naturally, by his first name, John. Anderson had known and _worked_ with the Detective for five years and Holmes had never called him by his first name. He doubted if he even knew it. Who was this John bloke?

/-/-/-/-/-/

Over the next week rumours about John Watson ran rampant around the Yard.

" _Who is he?"_

" _Don't know. He's some sort of doctor, though."_

" _I heard he was in the army."_

" _Nah ... really? Well, s'pose he could have been ... "_

" _Get off. They're not flat sharing ... are they?"_

" _Did you see it? Holmes talked to him!"_

" _NO!"_

" _Yup. A bloody conversation they had."_

" _Bet they're shagging."_

Laughter.

" _You've gotta be joking. Holmes? ... Hmm ... maybe ... and maybe this Watson has pictures or summat..."_

More laughter.

" _I'm serious ..."_

Other than quick Google, which returned too many hits to be useful, Anderson kept himself above all the petty speculation. Besides, he had seen the man himself. John Watson was obviously nothing special. He would disappear from the Detective's life within a fortnight.

_/-/-/-/-/-/_

But he didn't. Watson continued to show up at crime scenes and even at the Yard, following Holmes around and looking completely out of place (if not out of his league). Lestrade began greeting him by name and soon some of the others followed suit. Although his manner was polite and even respectful, always using an officer's rank when addressing them, Anderson was skeptical. This Watson had no business riding Holmes's coat tails and he said as much, repeatedly, to Sally. She had told him to grow a pair and talk to Lestrade about it and stop bothering her. He had smiled. He did so love Sally's feistiness.

/-/-/-/-/-/

The next time Watson showed up at a crime scene Anderson noticed that he was making notes in a pocket notebook. He twice interrupted the Detective to ask questions, scribbling down the answers, as if he could possibly understand the genius's train of thought. _That's fantastic_ , he heard the man exclaim more than once. He was obviously deliberately stroking Holmes's sizable ego so the Detective would tolerate his presence. The forensics specialist scoffed derisively as he pointed the note taking out to Mercer, who only shrugged,

"Probably just keeping the facts straight for the blog. You read the last one?"

"Blog? What blog?" Anderson asked sarcastically. He had never heard of anything so preposterous.

"Watson's. He's been writing up the cases he's been to. They're a good read. Gets in all the best bits. Even has a bit of a go at Holmes, he does," the constable replied.

That afternoon Anderson tried Google again and found the blog. He read _A Study in Pink_ and was thoroughly appalled by Watson's amateurish account of the serial suicide case. His grammar was atrocious, his referring to himself as Sherlock's colleague was utterly presumptuous and his level of appreciation for the Detective's brilliance was completely inadequate. _"Did I mention he was clever?"**_ Clever? School children are clever. Sherlock Holmes was a genius of the highest calibre. John Watson would never understand or appreciate the Detective like he did. As improbable as it may seem, if anyone was remotely close to being worthy colleague for Sherlock it was him. He left a comment on the blog saying as much before returning to cataloguing lab results.

/-/-/-/-/-/

By the time the Trenhope murder came along, Anderson was more than ready to tell Lestrade, and anyone else in ear-shot, exactly what he thought about the dubious merits of this John Watson. So the man was a doctor. An army doctor, some said. Big deal. He had a whole team of medical specialists, at his beck and call mind you, with whom he could consult. They certainly did not need this bloke's opinion, especially not tonight. The cause of death was so blatantly obvious. The women had been beaten and then killed when her throat was slit, probably by a serrated blade, like a hunting knife. Holmes was preoccupied by some smudges he was insisting were heel prints. Anderson, however, knew that they could have been made by any number of smooth objects. Maybe there was a slight foot shape to them but there was no tread or other markings that could be definitively identified. What murderer went shoe-less in London in March? He could see no possible connection between these smudges and the corpse and was telling Holmes and Lestrade so when Watson interrupted capturing the Detective's attention. Just that like that, his findings and arguments were disregarded. Again. Focus had shifted to Watson, who Holmes then invited to examine the body. This was beyond belief.

"Really, you need an _expert medical opinion_ on this one?" he sneered, air-quoting the expert part. He felt vaguely self-satisfied when Watson's head jerked up to look at him. Anderson did not recognize the look for what it truly was, a warning glance from an officer to a subordinate, and he continued head long,

"Can't you _deduce_ the cause of death?" The Detective ignored him setting his laser-like gaze on the doctor who was continuing his examination. Was he actually palpating her abdomen? Anderson could not contain himself.

"Oh, for God's sake, isn't the fact that her throat's been slashed and her trachea exposed a clue here?" he ranted. Sally gave him a slight nod. At least someone else could see what was going on here. Watson was speaking now, asking if he could move the body. Lestrade actually let him! Before forensics had signed off on the scene processing! Now he was reporting as if he was an expert.

"Um, yeah. Female, mid-twenties. Cause of death was a massive hemorrhage ... "

"You _think_?" Anderson could not keep himself from breaking in, sarcastically gesturing with both his hands at the large pool of blood around the victim's head and upper body. This charade had gone on long enough.

"Shut. Up!" the Detective barked at him. The rebuke was like a physical blow and Anderson shrunk back a bit. The conversation continued to flow around him with Watson at its centre.

"Massive hemorrhage in the abdominal cavity caused by single blunt force trauma. The laceration of the neck was secondary probably made several minutes after the abdominal trauma either just after or shortly before death." Lestrade was lapping it up and Holmes ... Holmes was smiling in _approval_.

"Blunt force trauma, huh? Really? What makes you say that? I mean I don't see a likely weapon." At least the D.I.'s brain hadn't gone totally off-line. Let see Dr. Blunt-force Trauma answer that one. But then the Detective was off.

"There was no _weapon_ , Detective Inspector, save the commando-style knife that the killer used to cut her throat and then took with him. Ms. Trenhope was first battered about the face and knocked to the ground. She was then murdered by an upward blow to her abdomen by an unshod foot delivered with sufficient force to rupture either her spleen or her abdominal aorta or both. Cutting her throat was merely window dressing. A final release of rage. You are looking for a male acquaintance, probably a jilted lover, with advanced martial arts training and both anger management and self-esteem issues."

Anderson took a deep breath, not realizing he had been holding it whilst Holmes expounded upon his deductions. He jumped back in trying to restore some reason to these proceedings.

"Wait. That's preposterous! Just _look_ at her. It's obvious ... " he sputtered. The Detective rounded on him again but he was ready. He was angry now and wasn't about to back down. Lestrade shouted them both down only to turn back to Watson.

"Enlighten us," he had asked encouragingly.

Anderson had to admit that he, like everyone else, was stunned into silence by Watson's graphic and detailed elaboration. As he watched Holmes and Watson disappear into the cab, it struck him. That was a eye-witness account. Who the hell was this guy? Was he dangerous? And why was he deliberately trying to get close to Sherlock Holmes?

/-/-/-/-/-/

One thing soon became very clear. Watson's presence made working with Holmes easier. He could often derail the Detective's insulting diatribes. He himself, seemed impervious to any (and there were more than a few) snide remarks and insults hurled his way, usually giving Holmes a patient _are-you-done-yet_ look before carrying on unperturbed. He had an uncanny ability to stop the Detective mid-snark with a well-timed throat clearing, cough or look. He usually didn't say much at crime scenes, except to Holmes, or to report on a cause of death to Lestrade. Anderson almost never bothered speaking to him. What was the point?

Tonight, however, the 'Watson effect' was minimal. Holmes had been an utterly callous, inhuman bastard all night. Anderson was telling him so, His deductions, while accurate, had not got them _ahead_ of the killer praying on London's multitude of university students. Holmes needed to do better, to be better. They're words were becoming heated. Lestrade and Sally were on the far side of the scene, too far way to intervene. He would be heard and have his say this time. The Detective raised his voice but he matched him. They were now drawing everyone's attention but he didn't care. He'd had enough of Holmes and his insults. Watson was trying to butt in again like _he_ could smooth things over.

"Um, Sherlock," he said capturing some of the Detective's attention. Anderson seized the opening.

"Right, let Watson tell you what to do," he seethed. Sherlock glowered at him and took a step forward.

Anderson's eyes widened but Watson stepped directly in Holmes's path, standing straight, as he always did, hands clasped behind his back. He spoke again in the same patient voice.

"Sherlock." This time the Detective snapped at him.

"What!" Watson matched his volume for one word.

"Just! ..." He collected himself holding one hand up in Sherlock's path.

"Get us a cab." It wasn't loud but it was an order. Sherlock was about to relent and Anderson saw another chance.

"Does he tell you to wipe your arse, too, or does he do it for you?" he sneered and smirked as he noticed Watson's ram-rod straight back tense. Then he saw the absolutely murderous look in Holmes's eye and a cold lump of fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Watson, however, held his ground standing like a rigid barrier between himself and Holmes.

"Sherlock, get us a cab, hm?" he repeated voice eerily calm and even.

Sherlock glared at Watson before whirling on his heel and heading toward the street. Everyone at the scene was watching now and Anderson puffed himself up and let out a cold, ugly laugh. Finally, victory. His self-assured smile faltered when John Watson turned around to face him.

"What?" he snapped irritated. Watson was standing at parade rest, as he often did, with his hands clasped behind his back, and head up straight. He was just looking at him. At first glance, the doctor appeared to be wearing the same mild, slightly bemused face he usually wore but then Anderson looked into his eyes. They were hard and held no lightness or humour at all. After a pregnant pause, Watson spoke,

"I'm sorry ... I was under the impression you wished to say something to me, Sergeant Anderson?" His voice was even and had a note of sincerity. He stood patiently awaiting a reply. It took Anderson far longer than he would have liked to form his retort, lame as it was.

"Is that supposed to _scare_ me?" he scoffed loudly.

Watson said nothing but he allowed his hands to fall to his sides as he settled his weight evenly on his feet. It was the relaxed and ready stance of an experience fighter. Lestrade started to walk toward the pair of them. John seemed not to notice and cocked his head slightly to the side silently regarding Anderson. His face had hardened and his deep gray-blue eyes were now ice-cold. Anderson took a step back, then a two more. Watson never moved an inch.

"Anderson!" Lestrade called. He was nearing them now. He hooked an angry thumb over his shoulder toward the forensics van. The message was clear and Anderson took the opportunity to make an exit. He could feel the doctor's eyes following him and he picked up his pace. This was ridiculous. He stood almost a full head above the man and was an officer of the law. There was nothing to fear from Watson. And yet? Standing by the van he strained to hear the parting exchange between Watson and Lestrade. Would the DI finally take this pretender to task for his interference?

"Problem, John?" Lestrade asked in his no-nonsense voice.

"Ah, no, no. None at all," Watson replied. "Just, um, refereeing," he added wryly and Lestrade chuckled. _Chuckled?_

"John!" Holmes boomed impatiently from the street.

"Listen, I better go or I'll be finding my own cab. Shall I have his _Brainli-ness_ call you, then?" Watson quipped. Anderson stilled. Did Watson actually think he could compel the Detective to do anything. Could he, really?

"Yeah, if you can manage it, that'd be great," Lestrade said sounding impressed. Then he extended his hand, "You have a good night, John." Watson straightened as he gave the D.I. a firm shake before heading to the street. Anderson ripped off his gloves and threw them in the bin. When and how had John Watson become the Detective's interface to the world?

/-/-/-/-/-/

Anderson was engrossed in his book idly munching some crisps alone in the fourth floor lunch room. He preferred to eat alone. In fact, aside from Sally (and wasn't that going down the pan), he rarely socialized much with his colleagues. They had their pub nights, their darts and snooker tourneys, their 5K health runs and such but, really, what was the point? They were all so dull. Not to mention that his wife tended to take exception to his spending too much time "out with the boys". He had just turned another page when a rumpled and rather tired looking John Watson came in and made a beeline for the coffee machine. Apparently Watson had been around the Yard enough to know that the coffee on the third floor was complete shite. Anderson crossed his long legs and did nothing to acknowledge the other man's presence.

"Is that the fourth of Song of Ice and Fire?" Watson said taking a sip of his coffee. Anderson looked up ready to defend his reading material but Watson seemed to be inquiring in earnest. Slightly surprised at the interest he answered cautiously.

"Yeah, A Feast for Crows," he said flipping the book around so Watson could see the cover. He nodded.

"That series is great, isn't it? The scope. Jesus. Almost enough to make you lose track." Watson smiled as he sipped more coffee. He was casually leaning against the counter but the Detective was no where in sight. It took a moment for Anderson to register that this was the first time he had ever seen Watson without Holmes.

"Has he stopped adding characters yet? I hear there's supposed to be a fifth book soon." Watson continued amicably.

"Yeah, I mean, no. There are still loads more characters. I've heard there was supposed to be seven books in all and that they're making the first book into a television series++." Anderson said sitting up and warming to the conversation.

"Really? Wow. I'd watch it." Watson smiled again and sipped more coffee.

"What book are you on?" Anderson asked interested after a beat.

"Me? I, um, I'm about half way through the third." Watson said looking down. Anderson's face lit up.

"Oh, I loved that one. I think it may be my favourite so far. Tyrion is _great_ in that book. And the whole siege of King's Landing and .. oops, sorry. Spoilers. How far are you?" he asked.

"Me? Um, I was in the middle of the siege. Stannis's fleet and the ...um ... with the ... wildfire ..." Watson said, his voice trailing off.

"You stopped there! But why? That's the best battle in the whole book!" Anderson exclaimed incredulously. In his excitement of finding a kindred spirit Anderson missed the shadow that crossed the doctor's face under his polite smile.

_John remembered reading voraciously in his bunk until lights out before turning down the corner of the page to mark his spot and tossing the well worn book on his small table. He had a patrol tomorrow but was looking forward to picking-up where he left off tomorrow night. He never saw that book again. It wasn't with the rest of his belongings that were shipped home from his quarters in Afghanistan. Clara and Harry had been aware he was reading the series. He and Clara had been discussing the books at length in emails while Harry had been scornful. If it was longer than a tabloid article Harry didn't read it. Still, his sister had gone out and brought him the whole boxed set when he could finally sit-up in bed unassisted. He remembered being excited to continue with the story only to find he couldn't bear to read about exploding ships and men being consumed by unstoppable fire. Intellectually, he knew the books were just fantasy fiction and he could just skip that scene, but so far he'd not been able.  
_

"I, ah, misplaced my copy," Watson said quietly, raising his coffee cup to indicate that it was empty. He smiled once more and left. Anderson shook his head at the other man's abrupt departure. There was something off about Watson, something not quite right there, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Whatever, he thought, and returned to his book.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Any way one looked at it the Chiswick extortion ring murders were nasty bits of work. Each of the three killings had ramped up in ferocity. Initially, there had been no obvious link between the crimes. He, _himself_ , had always suspected that there might be was one, obviously, but Dimmock doggedly treated the first two murders as separate until the third a month later. That was when Lestrade had been assigned the lead and brought in the Detective. Within four days Holmes had confirmed that murders were, indeed, connected and represented a significant escalation of violence from an extortion ring that had held Chiswick shops and businesses in an ever tightening strangle hold for the past six months..

"Surprising. Oh, this doesn't make sense," Holmes said to no one in particularly as he surveyed the scene around the abandoned warehouse where seven of the ring's enforcers had just been apprehended.

"What?" Watson asked, again expecting the Detective to explain it all for him. Anderson rolled his eyes at the idiocy.

"Him," Holmes pointed squarely at Tobias Greenlough who was currently standing with legs spread being searched. "The others, they're all idiots!" he waved a hand in the air as if his point were clearly made. Lestrade looked at him blankly, a non-verbal ' _So?_ ' hanging in the air. The Detective sighed in exasperation.

" _Think_ , would you! There has to more, others must be involved. The sophistication of the extortion scheme, itself, is quite high, far beyond these Neanderthals. No, they just got greedy. I'm sure the murders were never part of the plan. Bad for businesses," Sherlock continued. Anderson shook his head and spoke up because he knew the facts.

"But the victims and the other suspects all identify that Greenlough as the ..."

"Oh, he's unimportant!" Sherlock shouted in impatience. "Just a muscle bound, meth head ex-con with a history of sexual dysfunction and a tiny IQ!"

Suddenly, and with an ungodly roar, Greenlough broke away from his arresting constables and lurched forward. Anderson was terrified. The man was an ox, high as a kite on meth and heading in his direction. He backed away, quickly. That was when Greenlough seized the nearest body, Watson, nearly lifting him off the ground as he twisted his arm backwards. Anderson felt a spike of concern for the doctor as he maneuvered himself into a safe position among the armed officers. What happened next was so unexpected it seemed absurd. Anderson felt his jaw literally drop open. Watson did not struggle but _relaxed_ into the huge thug's grip before driving his free elbow back into Greenlough's solar plexus. Almost in the same motion, he rammed a heel into the side of Toby's knee, then pivoting out of his attacker's loosened hold, he drove his fist into the man's stunned face. But Watson was not done. He swept Greenlough's legs out, sending him down hard and was now kneeling on the man's chest, one foot stepping on his wrist, slamming his head against the pavement. Watson's expression was truly terrifying. Anderson saw with perfect clarity that the doctor was more than capable of killing this man and seemed about ready to do so when Lestrade spoke,

"Well, that was impressive. A bit scary, mind, but impressive." Watson quickly released the dazed and bleeding Toby, scrambling to his feet. Anderson found his voice,

"Scary my arse! He's fucking lethal!" He couldn't help but blurt it out. Surely the others had seen what he had. Surely they now knew the man was dangerous. Watson was staring down at his bloody knuckles acting as if he was ashamed. The Detective came to his defence.

"Yes. Obviously, Anderson. I do believe the Queen prefers for her soldiers to be lethal. Job requirement or something. Ready, John?" And just like that, Watson had quietly followed Holmes off toward the street.

"Alright, you lot, back to it. I'd like to get home before midnight for a change," Lestrade had called out.

As if released from a spell, the officers at the scene resumed their duties. Dillard and Perkins moved in to tend to Greenlough and Lestrade turned to speak with Donovan. Anderson surreptitiously followed the Detective and the doctor on the pretense of needing to log evidence in the forensics van. The van effectively separated the scene from the street and he stood at its rear listening. Holmes and Watson had stopped on the far side of the van, and Holmes was casting his eyes about for cab. Watson was standing several steps away from the Detective silently studying his bloody knuckles.

"How bad?" Holmes asked in a disinterested tone.

"It's fine," Watson answered quietly without looking up. The Detective sighed,

"In addition to being both immensely stupid and nauseatingly malodorous, Mr. Greenlough is abnormally large and exhibits a certain aptitude for his chosen profession of 'thug'. When he initially seized you he wretched your left arm behind your back with enough force to momentarily lift you off the pavement. You are now slightly pale and favouring the same arm. Do you require medical attention or not?" Watson stiffened and looked up blinking.

"No. I'm fine... It's just ... strained. It'll be ... fine," he said after a beat in a strangely calm voice.

"Good." Holmes shot Watson glance (was that concern?) while another full cab went by. "Getting one cab is proving to be exceedingly trying. Having to flag a second to send you off to A&E would be doubly tedious," the Detective said with an affected an air of impatience. _Affected?_ Watson smiled sadly still looking down.

"Your concern is overwhelming," he said slowly clenching his left hand into a tight fist. Holmes actually did look concerned, however. Over Watson? Bloody Hell.

"Well, you know, good bloggers are hard to find. Beside re-injury would only slow your already glacial typing technique." Holmes quipped gently. Re-injury? Anderson wondered what Holmes was referring to. Wait. _Quipped gently_? Sherlock Holmes did nothing gently!

"Lestrade was right, you know?" Watson looked up, his nose wrinkled in confusion. Holmes continued as he waved at another cab. This one was actually changing lanes to stop

"The way you took dear Toby down was rather impressive." Holmes said casually turning back to the street and pointing at the approaching cab. Watson closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked almost pained.

"Don't ... don't say that," he said, regret in his voice.

"Why not? Your lightening reflexes proved quite valuable once again. He had four stone on you if a pound." Anderson had to agree with the Detective there. The cab had stopped and Sherlock was about to get in. He paused because Watson was not following him. Instead, Watson stood rooted to the pavement several feet away watching an ambulance leave the scene. Its lights were going but not its siren. Not an emergency, then. Nonetheless, Tobais Greenlough was being transported to hospital. Watson watched the ambulance make its way down the block and disappear around the corner while Holmes waited half in and half out of the cab. Then the doctor straightened and looked in his direction, as if able to see right through van, and nodded. Although Anderson knew he could not be seen, he took a step back. Watson moved to the cab. He spoke in that calm, slightly pained voice again,

"Because Anderson was right, too."

Oddly, Philip Anderson found he felt no victory in this.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry for the epic delay since the last chapter. I've been both over-busy and under-inspired. The idea for this chapter came from the blog again. In the third season posts it is heavily implied that the regular commenter theimprobableone is Anderson. Right from the start, his comments are fanboy-ing of Sherlock and dismissive of John (and everyone else). So I think Anderson has always secretly revered Sherlock, who constantly ignored and insulted him, and was genuinely jealous of John when he suddenly showed up. Unlike Sally, Anderson's own feelings of inadequacy keep him from gaining any real insight, respect or empathy for John. He just sees him as a sort of threat. My story Sensitivity Training happens after this chapter.
> 
> * This dialog is lifted from the pilot of A Study in Pink
> 
> ** This is lifted from the BBC's John Watson blog.
> 
> ++ The series based on Song of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin is, of course, Game of Thrones, which premiered in 2011 thus was in production in 2010.
> 
> Any other dialog you recognize is not mine. Don't own...
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked. Please read and review.


	13. The Spider

_**The Spider** _

He sat bathed in the blue-white glow of four screens in the study of his opulent loft. Outside the dramatic floor-to-ceiling windows the city was quiet. It had just gone 3 a.m. Two of the screens were connected to his main desktop system, the one with dual Xeon quad-core processors, 8GB of memory and 2 TB of doubly encrypted RAID storage. In the eighteen open windows were spread sheets, forecasts and plans of execution covering jobs across four continents, including two actual executions. Next to the desktop's screens was a 17" XPS laptop which had idle secure satellite phone connections to Jaipur, Prague and Lima, as well as an open game of Mine Sweeper. His attention, however, was currently drawn to the fourth screen, a 52" Ultra HD LED television playing an episode of The Three Stooges. Although his lip twitched upward in apparent appreciation of the programme's antics, his nearly black eyes held no life or lightness only a shrewd, cold intelligence and crushing boredom.

He didn't start when the sat phone connection to Jaipur suddenly became active with ping. Instead he sighed, paused the Stooges and turned off the voice scrambler on the XPS's microphone. He didn't need it for Seb.

"Yes, what is it?" he snapped a bit peevishly, almost like a sulking child.

"Hope is dead. Holmes is not," Moran said curtly. Jim sat imperceptibly straighter while Sebastian began transmission of several jpgs.

"Don't tell me he got the wrong _bottle_ ," Jim's voice had a hint of a sing-song whine to it.

"Nope. Shot. Not by police either," Moran continued all business, knowing full well what Jim's reaction would be.

"By bloody _who_ , then!" Jim screamed leaping to his feet only to sit back down again to swivel back and forth in his very expensive office chair. He petulantly clicked on the first file, a close-up forensics photo of a very dead Hope and shook his head. He had given an order. He didn't _care_ how many enemies Hope had, he had given an _order_. The cabbie was his lure for Sherlock Holmes and was _strictly_ hands-off, for everyone!

"I want to know who, then I want to see their finger nails in a jar before you dispose of them. Their toe nails, too." He ran a hand through his hair and rolled his shoulders as if to relieve tension. Sebastian nodded and closed the connection. Jim clicked open the other images one by one. The last was a full-on shot of Sherlock. Jim smiled a feral little smile intrigued by this new promise of distraction. He took no noticed - or to be more precise, because Jim noticed everything, every _little_ thing, _all_ the time - he noticed and summarily dismissed the short blond man at the edge of the frame.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Jim distractedly tossed popcorn into the air and caught it in his mouth as Sebastian described the whole debacle with the Black Lotus. He was going on at tedious length about the risk posed by Sherlock Holmes' knowledge of the tong and the identity of its leader, General Shan. Jim rolled his eyes. Yes, the artifact smuggling had been a lark (he had always had an interest in Chinese history) and very profitable but the solution was as obvious as it was simple.

"Oh, _indulge_ yourself already and set up the hit," he drawled without interruption of his popcorn game. But then, he sat a bit straighter as a smile slowly over took his lips.

"Do it tonight. Best way to end one of her calls, really. They're always so _boring_ ," he was practically beaming now. Sebastian answered with his own cruel, twisted grin. It had been _ages,_ almost three months _,_ since he'd killed someone. Before Jim's pendulum could swing back he pressed on with his other business. He need to discuss the Asia numbers and the extortion plans for the Canadian Junior Minister for Trade but first he need to convince Jim of the threat that Holmes presented. Not the least of which being his elder brother.

"Who's that?" Jim said abruptly, out sync with Sebastian's report, tossing more popcorn in the air. He waved a hand at a picture on top of the folders on his desk. He had seen this man, somewhere. He never forgot a face. He never forgot anything. Sebastian glared at Jim in frustration.

"Do you listen to anything I say?" he snapped. "That," Moran pointed to the man in a black jacket. "Is John H. Watson, late of the Queen's Army."

"Oh, not _another_ of your penniless ex-military _strays_ , Seb, dear. If I've told you once I've told you a _dozen_ times as long as they're useful and don't pee on the rug you can _keep_ them," Jim giggled and munched some more popcorn. "Doesn't look like much, not very big. What's his skill set? Computers, explosives, communications?" Sebastian shook his head, exasperated.

"No, no ..." he sighed. He grabbed the laptop and typed before punching the return with unnecessary force. "As I was saying, Dr. John H. Watson is Sherlock Holmes' new flatmate. And probably, near as I've been able to figure, Jefferson Hope's shooter." He spun the laptop displaying John's blog to face Jim.

Jim scanned the blog page and clicked open the top entry, _A Study in Pink_. Then he looked back at the enlarged photo of John on the desk again.

"Really? _Him?_ Are you certain?" Jim set his popcorn aside and picked up the photo. "I thought you said the shooter was good, a pro. He looks ... rather ... I don't know ... _ordinary_ , don't you think?"

"I wouldn't be so quick. He's ex-RAMC. Spent his career going into forward areas with nothing but a backpack and a Browning. I'd reckon he learned to use it," Moran replied a tinge of professional respect in his voice. "Anyway, he was the only one I've been able to trace to scene excluding police. Still want his fingernails in a jar?"

Jim was perusing the blog now, his nose wrinkled in bewilderment and disdain. He answered distractedly,

"No ... not yet."

/-/-/-/-/-/

The volume dial on the Cambridge Audio Azur 651R amplifier was set to ten and the sound that poured from the custom, high fidelity Bang Olufsen speakers was painfully loud. Tchaikovsky, Swan Lake. Jim lay on his back on the leather sofa in a crisp white shirt, his pants and navy blue silk socks. His trousers were flung across the floor. He was staring at a spot on the ceiling, mouth hanging half-open and black eyes half-shut. He was so _bored_. Terminally bored, he was sure of it. His facial muscles twitched slightly as the music swelled to it's loudest. Not even Pyotr Ilyich* could chase his boredom today. This was intolerable. Ordinary life was so _boring_. He _needed_ stimulation, distraction, _something_. He _needed_ a challenge.

Twenty-odd minutes after the music ended he finally roused himself from his stupor and made his way back to his desk. Maybe there was some mayhem he could raise _somewhere_. He bumped the XPS laptop and its screen flickered to life. The latest surveillance photos of Sherlock were still on the screen and the thought hit him like a bolt of lightning. Jim reached out and touched the screen while a smile spread across his face. _Finally_ , he thought, a worthy playmate. This was too good and too rare an opportunity to pass up. Now invigorated he worked non-stop and with laser like focus for the next 41 hours starting the wheels turning. He then slept for 15 hours. When he woke he checked on the final preparations and carefully set the board. It was time to play.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Well, that was fun! Jim was going to enjoy this game immensely. Playing Gay Jim from IT, he had just walked right up to Sherlock Holmes and introduced himself. He had even met the roomie, John Watson, too. Nothing special there. He'd have to figure that one out later. Until then, he wished Sherlock would hurry up and solve his first little puzzle soon. He did so want to go on _playing_.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Jim got his wish. Sherlock scrambled over the first hurdle and crashed through the second and third. Pity about the old woman, he guessed. But then, he had warned her not to deviate from the script. Why couldn't ordinary people just _follow directions_? He had no patience for stupidity. The Vermeer was a nice touch, bringing some culture to the proceedings. That one was probably his favorite puzzle but Sherlock had pulled it out in the end. Jim giggled. Sebastian probably scarred that poor kid for life. Now it was time for the grand finale.

/-/-/-/-/-/

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," Jim said in a chipper voice. Seb and his minions had been none too gentle (and very liberal with the drugs) when acquiring the good doctor. He was only now regaining consciousness. The man tied into the folding chair lifted his lolling head and blinked several times before his eyes seemed to focus. The confused look of recognition on his face was absolutely priceless.

"You ... you're ... " he slurred.

"You're right, I am," Jim teased.

"You're ... Moriarty?" John said thickly.

"I thought we'd just established that," Jim snapped back. Watson looked blearily down at the bricks of Semtex across his chest. Shaking his head he looked back up.

"Why?" he asked.

"Come now, Johnny, you _know_ how this game is played. I strap people to bombs strictly as _motivation_. If Sherlock jumps through the hoops to my satisfaction then you live. Otherwise ... _ah well_ ..." he ended in a bizarrely high-pitched sing-song voice. John found it supremely irritating.

"So you killed all those people just to keep the game going?" John could not hide his disgust.

"Of course," Jim replied immediately as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

John glanced down at the explosives again, closed his eyes and bit back his retort. He thought of his argument with Sherlock over the "caring lark".

Jim casually wandered away from John toward his chief henchman, the one he called Sebastian. Henchman. How had John ever become mixed up with people who had henchmen? John strained to listen as he tested his bonds. No good. Suddenly, he noticed the red dot of a laser sight trained on one of the bricks of Semtex and involuntarily sucked in a breath. He then heard a giggle from across the room. Moriarty was laughing at him. John glared back at the madman.

"Oh, look, Seb, we've made our Johnny _angry,_ " Jim said in mock horror before giggling some more.

Right, no way was he going to play the victim for this lunatic. Think. They would never "set him off" at this range. It would be suicide. Besides, he knew he was just a prop, an enticement for Sherlock. He wondered if his flat mate knew. Probably not, as he was the hostage mouth-piece and he hadn't talked to anyone yet. This was probably like the last time with the painting. He'd be a silent hostage until the end when he would be brought in for shock effect, like the child. No doubt, by this time, his flatmate had been given his fifth task and was probably over the moon and utterly engrossed in the new puzzle. John just had to trust that Sherlock would solve it. Four for four so far, the odds were good, he told himself. He sat as straight as he could in the chair, head-up, eyes straight ahead. Jim and Sebastian both smirked this time and returned to their conversation. Two minutes later, Sebastian abruptly wheeled and levelled his rifle at John's head. John could see the steady red laser out of the corner of his eye. He flinched slightly despite his best efforts. The message was clear. _I can kill you (and only you) anytime I want_.

Time dragged on endlessly. John's stomach started to growl despite the tension. He never had gotten his tea. Moriarty, Sebastian and the others alternately ignored and taunted him. He remain silent, tied to his chair. As near as he could figure Moriarty was a certifiable nutter, both cruel and mercurial. He was beginning to fear that his chances of surviving the night, even if Sherlock solved the puzzle, were not good.

Jim was bored. Why did Sherlock have to say midnight? Midnight was _hours_ away. This was getting so _boring_ now. Grabbing Watson had been all too _easy_. He was ordinary. He pulled out his phone and began another game of Scrabble. Twenty minutes later he stalked back to John and thrust the screen into his face.

"Look at this, 7 consonants. What the hell can anyone do with seven consonant. I'm Irish not Hungarian. It not _fair."_ he whined, thumbed the screen off and put the phone back in his pocket. John made no reply.

"I must say, Dr. Watson, you're much more fun to play with than the others," Jim gushed suddenly, as if he were continuing an ongoing conversation. "Much more collected. None of that weepy business. All that snivelling got rather tiresome, really." He paused as if considering.

"Wouldn't you say Johnny here's our best hostage to date, Seb?" he called across the room to his sniper. Sebastian made a noncommittal reply. Jim strolled in a circuit around John chair circling him several times before stooping to look him in the eye.

"You _are_ afraid, though, aren't you?" It took every ounce of self-control he had but John did not respond or react.

"If you're not, you _really_ ought to be." Jim straightened and strolled behind the chair again. He suddenly grabbed John by the hair and yanked his head to the side. In a faux stage whisper, he spoke directly into his captive's ear.

"Because one day, sooner or later, John Watson, I _will_ kill you."

Jim jerked John's head back to centre and released it. He smoothed his suit and headed for the door to the pool area. He paused at the door to regard John.

"You do know how the game is played, Dr. Watson. Say everything I tell you to say or you're dead." He started to leave then turned back again. "Sherlock, too ... but no _pressure_." Jim gave John a final, beatific smile.

"Get him dressed, Seb. It's show time," he said as the door swung closed behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N – Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I've just been so busy and uninspired. Several people have suggested a Moriarty chapter. The problem is that I don't think Jim every really gives John much thought. John's just another play thing to manipulate. Hope you like it.
> 
> Please review.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.
> 
> * Pyotr Ilyich = Tchaikovsky's given names


	14. Post Game Analysis (Part 1)

" _What happened there?*"_ John asked with more than a hint of relief in his voice. In Sherlock's response, however, any note of concern was superseded by curiosity and renewed interest.

" _Someone changed his mind.*_ " John gave a single, tight nod as if to say "OK" although his face still held his confusion. He inhaled deeply and blew out a long slow breath closing his eyes as he did so. Adrenalin was leaving his system making him feel more than a bit shaky. Staying in his crouch for another minute or two was probably his best option. He opened his eyes only to receive another jolt of surprise. Sherlock's concerned face was less than a foot away from his own.

"John, are you quite alright? Did they drug you? Of course, they must have done to subdue you with out visible ... Did they hit you? How many times? Is that why you're moving stiffly or ...? Where did they hit you? Do you need an ambulance? I'll call 999, shall I?"

John caught his breath. The bruises from where Moriarty's thugs had hit him were certainly smarting but none were serious. However, the drug, added to the stress of the evening, had left him with a pounding headache.

"Sherlock, I'm fine ..." he said rotely. His flat mate looked unconvinced and continued unabated.

"I'd wager Mycroft could have a helicopter here in under 4 minutes ..."

"SHERLOCK," John nearly bellowed in order to catch the other man's attention then winced at the effort.

"I'm fine, really." He made to stand, intending to take it slowly, but Sherlock yanked him straight up, nearly unbalancing him.

"Thanks," he said tersely as he staggered a few steps away from the detective. He needed some space. Sherlock continued to stare at him with his patented Holmesian gaze.

"Listen, let's get outside, OK? I could use some air and we could both do with getting away from that," John said rather too calmly while taking another step back and pointing toward to the explosive vest on the pool deck, its blue LEDs still blinking.

"Calling Lestrade probably wouldn't go amiss," John added as they headed for the door. The detective nodded a bit dumbly as he followed the soldier outside whilst groping in his jacket pocket for his phone.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sherlock stopped pacing and glanced over at John again. He wasn't sure what he expected to see this time that he hadn't seen two minutes and thirty-seven seconds earlier when he had last glanced in John's direction. Following the best practices of the Met, he and John had been separated from each other since Lestrade's team had arrived to preserve the independence of their statements. His flat mate was sitting in the glass-walled conference room across from the room that Sherlock was in. He was giving Donovan his full attention, head cocked slightly to the side, idly turning a paper cup of wretched NSY coffee around on the table. Donovan must had said something about the coffee because John shook his head no before giving her a polite smile and braving a sip. He looked utterly calm and relaxed. One would never have guessed that just 51 minutes ago he had been wearing enough Semtex to level a building with a laser sight trained on his ... Sherlock resumed his pacing dimly aware that Lestrade was talking again, presumably to him. How could he have been so stupid? How had he not seen, not anticipated, where Moriarty's game was going. It had all been so alluring, so fun. _All fun and games until someone ..._ No, not someone, John. Sherlock turned sharply and paced in a new direction. He had very nearly died tonight, very nearly taking John Watson with him, all in the name of distraction. Stupid. And John's grabbing Moriarty so that he, Sherlock, might escape. That was ( _brave_ ) ... idiotic. He should not have ... why did he do that? Why would anyone do that? Willingly embracing certain death in the vain hope that someone else might live was ( _heroic_ ) ... illogical. Sherlock stopped his pacing and glanced over at John again.

/-/-/-/-/-/

By the time Sherlock and John were allowed to leave the Yard it was going 4 a.m. Lestrade insisted that they be driven back to Baker Street in a police car. After stealing a surreptitious glance at his clearly spent blogger the detective made no protest. Without traffic the drive was fairly short but neither man spoke. Nor did they look at each other. Or, to be more precise, Sherlock resolutely fixed his gaze out the window way from John. John, seeing that his friend was in "thinking" mode, was more than happy to lean his head back and close his eyes. Not that he could sleep. Although he appeared outwardly calm, he was still far too jacked up for sleep. Actually, Sherlock's indifference was a relief. He knew from experience that he was headed for a full and spectacular crash and really would prefer not to do it in front of his flatmate.

When the car stopped, Sherlock exited with out a backwards glance. John thanked the officer before rounding the car and gave a quick wave from the pavement as the vehicle pulled away. John pulled in a long, deep breath and blew it out before addressing his flatmate.

"I, ah, think I'm … going to walk," he pointed toward to corner with his head before turning to walk in that direction. Sherlock descended the stoop and was at John's side before he'd taken three steps. John stopped.

"What are you doing?" he asked patiently.

"Walking," Sherlock responded matter-of-factly.

"I meant I, hmm... I need to walk ... alone, Sherlock," John said gently. Sherlock looked baffled and stood rooted to the spot. Several second elapsed before he responded.

"Of course. I'll, um, just ..." he waved vaguely back toward the door to 221 as he stammered. "I need to catalogue ..." he gestured toward is head, "and you'll ... you've got ... things ..." Sherlock fluttered his hand at John as he took a step backwards. John nodded with a weak smile.

"Right," he said looking back one more time before walking away. Sherlock mounted the stoop again and entered. He'd not yet closed the door behind himself before his hand flew to his mobile.

_JW is heading north on Baker St. presumably toward_

_Ms. Sawyer's. SH_

_Noted. His safe arrival will be assured. MH_

/-/-/-/-/-/

Sarah Sawyer was more than disappointed, she was hurt, and she was worried. And angry. Worried but angry. She should just break it off. What was she thinking? John was ... _great_. He was kind, exciting, caring, unpredictable, a gentleman, _dangerous... NO!_ That was his flatmate, that berk Sherlock. John was responsible. John called when he had to cancel, or when Sherlock made him late. Usually. She rang his number again but it went straight to voice mail. She sighed. Technically, John was on second call, after Peter, this weekend. He should not be turning off his phone for any reason. Sarah was angry and disappointed all over again.

Sarah drank most of the bottle of pinot grigio herself (it wasn't terribly good) before heading to bed with a book of Suduko puzzles around 10 p.m. So much for "the next time", she mused. She was ready or _had_ been ready, too. Truth be told, she had wanted to last time but something had held her back. She sighed. Why was she acting like some chasten school girl. She knew herself better than that and she knew John might ... could very well be ... it. Maybe. But for now she was angry ... and hurt. Oh, who was she fooling? This was going no where. She should just break it off. She would do so first thing tomorrow. Perhaps.

/-/-/-/-/-/

John raised his hand to knock then lowered it again. He looked at his watch. It was 5:12 a.m. How could he knock on Sarah's door at this time of night, er, morning, rather. Another shiver ran through him and he tried to take a deep steadying breath. He was crashing. He should have just stayed home, gone up to his room and closed the door. He huffed a single laugh to himself. Like that would stop Sherlock? He was so exhausted he felt light headed. He needed to get off the street. This was ridiculous, Sarah was really great. She would understand. _Hi Sarah. So sorry to be knocking on your door 11 hours late but I have a good excuse. You see I was kidnapped by a psychotic criminal mastermind and strapped to a bomb and ..._ Right. He closed his eyes only to see red laser dots swimming across his chest and Sherlock's forehead. He yanked them open breathing hard. He needed to get off the street. He glanced at his watch again, 5:13 am. After letting another shiver run its course he raised his hand and knocked.

Sarah had had a bit too much of the dreadful wine and was snoring quietly. _Knock, knock, knock._ She snuffled groggily but did not open her eyes. _Knock, knock, knock._ This time Sarah opened her eyes, propped herself up on her elbows and glanced at the clock 5:13 am. _Knock, knock, knock._ There it was again. She scrambled out of bed with her heart suddenly in her throat. Grabbing her dressing grown, she hurried to the door. _Knock, knock, knock._ Oh, God, something must be wrong. No one rang with good news at this hour.

"Coming," she called as she reached the door and opened it with the safety chain still attached. Then she froze unable to even form his name, _John_.

"Hi, Sarah. Um, sorry. I'm, um, I ... sorry ..." John stammered, his powers of speech abandoning him just as Sarah returned.

"John, what on Earth ... what ... where ... why are you here ... It's 5 a.m.!" She glared at him but her alarm, which had turned to anger, was quickly morphing back to alarm. John looked ... wrong. Something was very wrong here. She stopped mid-tirade and stared at him.

"Can I ... come in for a moment, please?" he asked sounding ... stressed. Was that tremour? Her heart was back in her throat as she slid the chain to open the door wide.

/-/-/-/-/-/

It was now just after 1 pm and Sarah sat at her small kitchen table with yet another cup of tea, thumbing through a magazine that she was not reading. John was asleep in her room. It had taken several hours after he had arrived to get him there. As a doctor, Sarah had, of course, heard of acute post-stress reactions and had even thought she had seen them in her patients. She had been wrong. She had never witnessed anything quite like the spectacular adrenaline crash she had seen this morning. She stilled and pricked her ears listening for any hints of distress coming through the partially opened door to her bedroom. There was none so she forced herself to relax her shoulders and take a sip of tea. But it was no good. She stood and paced the living room as John's words raced around the inside of her head. _Kidnapped_ , _drugged_ , _strapped to a bomb_ , _snipers_ , _an omnipotent_ _criminal mastermind_ and, as always, _Sherlock_. All related in John's half shy, self-deprecating manner as he repeatedly apologized for being late, for intruding, and for a dozen other ridiculous things. It had sounded so preposterous but she knew, _knew_ it was all true and then some. She had seen the small involuntary tremours, heard the ever-so-slight shudder in his measured breathing, seen the winces as he took off his jumper and shirt and the bruises on his knuckles. He'd been beaten, or at least been in a fight. Then, to top it off, the crazy bomber and his gunmen had all gotten away! That frightened her the most because she could see that it frightened him. She knew first hand what it was like to be swept up by the criminals Sherlock Holmes attracted. She needed to stay clear of that. It worried her that John was kidnapped only three blocks from her house. Had these people known where he had been headed? Did they know about her? Did they know where she lived? She peaked out at the street from behind the front curtains for the fourteenth time that day but saw nothing suspicious. Mycroft's people were far too skilled to be spotted by a civilian.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/

John finally woke an hour later and apologized, again, for intruding. Sarah decided to play it cool, insisting that he stay longer, and joking that he still owed her a date. John smiled gratefully and they passed a delightful, Sherlock-free evening with Indian take-away, a better bottle of wine than the one she had consumed the night before and some telly. They were having a lovely time, like nothing had happened, but the illusion couldn't last because something had most definitely happened. John grew quite and distant again when the news came on. He pulled away from her slowly shaking his head as the lead story on the fake Vermeer was followed by the latest on the gas leak explosion in Yorkshire.

"Just a glimpse," he bit out under his breath.

"What?" Sarah inquired, hoping to draw him out. John spun to face her, his eyes hard with anger.

"It's _him_. All of it. It's all just ... a distraction. A game! None of it _matters_ to them, either of them ..." John stopped abruptly as if realizing that he has said too much. Sarah stared at him wide-eyed.

"You mean that ..." she pointed vaguely at the news anchor who was reporting on the gruesome strangulation death of noted astronomer, Professor Johanna Cairnes. John held her gaze for a long beat then nodded. Now it was Sarah's turn to pull away. She crossed to the far side of the room, her back to John, not knowing what to think. This. This was utter craziness. John clicked off the television and they stood in silence.

"Sarah, I am ..." John started and stopped.

"Maybe ... I ..." he tried again taking several steps toward her.

"Sorry. I'll just go," he finally managed and began moving toward the door. Sarah turned to face him.

"John, this is ... big. Really big." she blurted. Fire now flashed in her eyes. John gave her a strained smile.

"You need to take care of yourself. To protect _your-_ self. These people are ... _mad_ and ... if they could do all those ..." Sarah stopped. Why was she saying this? Because it had to be said! She knew there wasn't much John Watson couldn't handle yet here they were in the midst of multiple criminal plots and murders. Again.

"Please, promise me that you will be careful," Her voice caught. John crossed the room and took her into a gentle yet secure hug. She wanted to hear him promise, needed to hear it. Instead he said "Don't worry" which wasn't exactly the same thing.

/-/-/-/-/-/

When John returned to Baker St. the next morning it was to find Sherlock sitting in John's preferred armchair deeply immersed in his mind palace. That was more than slightly annoying. They hadn't exchanged more than a dozen sentences since The Pool, they really ought to talk. And why was Sherlock in John's chair? John tried calling his flatmate's name several time before noisily clattering around the kitchen to make tea. No response. With a final exasperated sigh, John collected his laptop and his tea and ascended the thirteen stairs to his room. Surreptitiously Sherlock followed his departure out of the corner of his eye.

Settling at the small desk in his room, John opened a browser window and automatically clicked on the link to his e-mail. He took a sip of tea as his new messages loaded but stopped mid-swallow when he saw the fourth one down,

_**Pyke, T.A. Re: Re: Re: Re: Back in London?**_.

OK. That was bizarre. He had been thinking of Tane just two days ago as he and Sherlock had walked away from Connie Prince's house.

John had received the first email from Tane Pyke back in mid February when he was still very much in the early stages of adjusting to life after the army. He hadn't known what to think. His contact with most of his former comrades was stilted. He had just gotten past the incredibly awkward stage with Bill Murray and Ted Berringer and was still working to get there with James Sholto. This despite John's frank pronouncement that his being wounded was hardly the major's fault. Sholto had countered with characteristic gravity that while it was not his fault, John's safety had ultimately been his responsibility, effectively shoving the barrier of rank between them and their unlikely friendship.

Tane Pyke was different. Tane was hardly a good mate in the same sense that Bill or Ted were. Nor was he a mentor or confidante like James. But he was definitely something and John valued their friendship. It had been no secret to John's command that Major Pyke actively sought to recruit John at every opportunity. It was only slightly more secret that Pyke was far more Mi6 than royal marine. John first crossed Pyke's path during his second tour in Afghanistan when he had treated a member of Pyke's team. The two of them had clicked, striking up an easy acquaintance and reconnecting whenever Pyke deigned to grace the camp. John was intrigued by the man and, if he were to admit it, flattered by his attention. Tane Pyke was John's polar opposite in almost every. The second son of an obscenely wealthy, upper-class family he had been born in New Zealand and spent his early childhood there. Pyke's father was a high-ranking member of the British foreign service, the type of career diplomat with lots of letters after their name, and his mother was a senior attache with the New Zealand consulate. John's dad had been a welder and his mum a baker. He often secretly wondered why he and Pyke got on at all. During John's third tour Pyke came looking for an operative with medical knowledge beyond that of a field medic for an extended mission up into the Korengal Valley, a mission rather suspiciously tailor-made for John. John remembered the way Sholto had tried to dissuade him,

" _He's a spy, Watson. They all are. Mi6 to be sure," Sholto had cautioned over breakfast._

" _You say it like it's a bad thing, sir_ ," _John had quipped back trying to lighten the mood. He had already decided to take the assignment_.

" _Have you met them?**" his commanding officer had retorted in his patented dead-pan delivery. Then he had added seriously,_

" _They're different, John. Don't always play by the same rules we do."_

After returning from his four-week sojourn up the Korengal, John often wondered if Sholto would have been disappointed to discover just how easy John found it to play by Pyke's rules. John knows it scared the hell out of him. That realization, more than anything else, was why he returned to and remained with the Fusiliers despite the continued hard-sell from Tane Pyke.

John clicked on the message and smiled. It contained more of Tane's teasing banter. Of all John's friends he seemed to have the least difficult time with John's injury and discharge, bawdily tearing the mickey out of him for it. The e-mail also contained another invitation (insistence?) to visit Pyke at his family's home in New Zealand where he was currently on extended leave. For Tane Pyke, "extended leave" could, quite literally, mean anything. John took another long sip of tea and stretched. He felt the pull of the bruises from the other night and frowned, closing his eyes. Suddenly there was a cry of "UNACCEPTABLE!" and a crash of furniture from the first storey. John raced down the stairs. Sherlock was standing by John's armchair both hands in his hair as if preparing to pull the curls out. The small table that usually stood next to the chair was overturned and John's current reading material (two paperbacks, several medical journals and a newspaper) plus the Rubik's cube were scattered across the floor.

"What are you doing?" John asked immediately, a wary edge to his voice. Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard John. Instead he pivoted to the right turning his back to his flatmate and continued muttering. John could not make out all the words but he thought he'd heard 'unacceptable' again. Suddenly, Sherlock pivoted back to face John, his eyes pinning the doctor like a butterfly to a tack board. Then he started to pace agitatedly before kicking the coffee table with another roar of "Unacceptable". John was at a loss.

"Stop!" he roared back. Then he added more gently, "Sherlock, stop wrecking the place." He maneuvered himself between the detective and the desk where there were a number of breakable things, including Sherlock's laptop.

"Care to tell me what's so bloody unacceptable?" John asked in his patient voice while assuming an expression of honest curiosity. Sherlock whirled to face him, again regarding him with a piercing laser-like gaze.

"You."

"Me?" John inquired after a long beat. He then huffed a half-affronted/ half-resigned laugh.

"So, _this_ is all my fault, is it?" he swept a hand to encompass the room indicating not only the current mess but the left over papers and wall murals from their game of tag with Moriarty. Sherlock spun around a full 360 as if trying to take in the whole room before stopping. His hands flew back into his curls and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Stop talking, stop talking, stop TALK-ING! I need to think! How can I _think_ when you talk incessantly!"

John stared at his flatmate for a full minute thinking any number of unkind thoughts, his jaw firmly clenched. Finally deciding on his best course of action he turned and left the room. He was going to visit Tane Pyke in New Zealand.

/-/-/-/-/-/

Months, and even years, later Sara Sawyer was never quite sure how it had all started, the "beginning of the end". One moment she had been dutifully working her way through the last of a stack of patient reports on her computer and the next John Watson was asking her to fly away with him to the opposite side of the globe. She hadn't known quite what to make of invitation at first. It had honestly floored her and that bothered her a bit. After all, she had suggested and felt strongly that John _should_ get away for a while, that he should leave London and, specifically, get the hell away from Sherlock Holmes. Why, then, was she so surprised that John was taking her advice? And why was she hesitant to joining him on what could well be a once-in-a-life-time trip to New Zealand? John was head and shoulders (well, not literally) above any of her boyfriends since ... ever. He had serious potential (maybe). She was being ridiculous. This wasn't a marriage proposal, it was just a holiday. In New Zealand! That'd torn it, she was going. She called Elsa in reception and began clearing her schedule.

/-/-/-/-/-/

_Two Days Later ..._

"Sherlock?" John rapped lightly on the half closed glass doors to the kitchen. The detective made no hint of acknowledgment although he was feeling almost contrite for his outburst earlier that morning. Or was it yesterday? John pressed on, "You busy?" he asked with a shy smile stepping into the kitchen. No response.

"Um, listen. I've had an invite to visit an old army mate. Thing is ... he's in New Zealand." John huffed a self-conscious laugh. Sherlock stilled imperceptibly before forcing himself to load the next saliva slide onto the microscope. _John's leaving_.

"I've cleared it all with Lestrade. He knows how to get a hold of me, if necessary," John continued. He waited for Sherlock to reply, hoping for a dig at Lestrade, as a minimum.

"It's an open-ended sort on thing," he offered. "Sarah's coming with and, well, it'll probably be awhile before I'm back." Sherlock switched the slides under the microscope and made a notation in his notebook. _John's leaving_.

"So ... I put next month's rent over there." He pointed to the mantle. "Don't forget to actually give it to Mrs. Hudson, alright?" John waited again for a response.

"OK, I'm off out, then. My flight leaves Heathrow in a few hours." He blew out a long slow breath just like the night at The Pool. Sherlock glanced over without moving. John was staring at an invisible spot on the floor.

"I'm ... I, ah, just need to get my head around all this," he said quietly. "It's nothing ... I," he added after a beat and a forced smile. "I'll see you, when I get back." Sherlock adjusted the focus knobs unnecessarily without looking up. John gave him a tight nod, before turning to go. He grabbed his green duffle from near the door and descended the seventeen steps. Sherlock stood as if one with the sound of the front door closing and crossed to the windows. Peering around the edge of the curtain, he watched John Watson walk away.

/-/-/-/-/-/

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \+ Or, how John and Sarah ended up in New Zealand!
> 
> OK, this is my head cannon for what happened right after The Pool up to John & Sarah's departure for New Zealand to visit John's old army mate. The trip to New Zealand comes from John's blog and was an obvious nod to Martin Freeman heading off to film The Hobbit. The rest are my musings. This chapter and the next also tell the story (well, my version) of how John and Sarah split up. As I've said before, I always liked Sarah. I really, really like Mary but I still think Sarah was cool. Jumping in and wrestling Chinese baddies on a first date... come on, that was cool. Much better than the boring teacher. I like to think that she and John remained friends or at least friendly colleagues. But break-ups rarely work that way. She wasn't at the wedding, after all, even though David was.
> 
> * These lines come from the end of The Pool scene in ASiB.
> 
> ** This is a reference (rip off?) of John's comment to Sherlock in TGG as they walk away from Connie Prince's house. S: Despite what people think we do still have a secret service. J: Yeah, I know, I've met them. I've always wondered when, how and in what capacity John had “met” the British secret service? Doesn't Gatiss know that he can't just throw things like that out there without driving us fans to distraction!!
> 
> Finally, Tane is a Maori name pronounced Tahr-nay.
> 
> Please read and review. 
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit-picked

**Author's Note:**

> A/N – OK, I am still not at all sure where this is going. I have all these fragments of head canon for John's transition during the first season, his meeting the other characters (like his and Lestrade's first conversation, he and Mrs Hudson getting acquainted over crap TV, etc.). I think this is going to be a prequel to my story Sensitivity Training then maybe I'll be able to write the second chapter to that! Please read and review and let me know if it's worth continuing or if you have any ideas or requests.
> 
> Not beta'd or Brit picked.


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